Progressing Against Propriety
by A Bit Closer Johnny
Summary: Takes place after the events of COTBP. Assumes DMC has not occurred. Will and Elizabeth have married, but not all obstacles are overcome easily. Propriety inevitably interferes; can they strive against it?
1. Progress: Part I

Progressing Against Propriety

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of this genre, though I wish I did!

Answer to Williz's challenge on HTR :)

Darkness descended upon the world, soft and subtle, beautiful and enigmatic, the pearly-silver moon replacing the lazily golden sun in the lazuline sky. The horses softly murmured, traipsing with ethereal agility as if the weight of the carriage they drew was nonexistent. Moving along at a steady pace, the wheels bumped gently upon the supple earth forming a paved road. Twinkling lights glowed from shops and cafés; the own of Port Royal yet bustled with the passage of the hours.

Nestled within the shadowed comfort of the carriage, a seated figure, his features—dark hair bound, dark eyes, definable facial bones—illuminated by the moonlight, glanced towards his right. The glow of a street lamp cast a beam of light into the carriage window, revealing the presence of another figure, throwing her features into sharp relief. Her profile was forward-facing; some loose, rebellious curls of her hair traced across her cheeks like a caressing veil of a spider web. The carriage halted for a moment, and he took the opportunity to look at her, at her features made dim yet all the more stunning in the night. She failed to notice his glance as she uttered a scant sigh, raising her hands to unfasten the pins which restrained her locks, and the golden strands tumbled across her shoulders like spun silk. He smiled, lifting his hand, and reached towards her, resting upon her shoulder as his fingertips flicked her curls. She made a slight sound of surprise as she turned her face towards him, meeting his umber eyes with her hazel ones. He smiled, the corner of his lips rising. She returned the smile, tucking the hair which obscured her face behind her ear. He startled as the carriage jolted into movement of a sudden, dropping his hand from her shoulder in an instant as the Governor, sitting across from them, previously silent as he dozed, awoke and cleared his throat.

"Splendid ball, wasn't it? I believe it went rather well," the Governor spoke, looking towards the young woman. "Elizabeth?"

She looked towards him, her manner somewhat perturbed as she murmured, "Yes, rather well."

The Governor uttered a noncommittal sound of approval and glanced out the window.

Elizabeth glanced at the figure at her left. He was looking down at his hands, which clasped and unclasped. Yes, rather well, with all those high-bred acquaintances of her father eying them with the sharp, critical gaze of a hawk upon a juicy bit of prey. The news of their engagement had been shock enough, but ever since they had married, nigh two weeks since, scrutiny had been cast upon them in an onslaught. Elizabeth frowned, saddened by her husband's nervousness, by his undiminished fear of touching her, by his fear of even taking her hand, in the domineering presence of the Governor. They were married for heaven's sake—what impropriety could there be in a husband taking the hand of his wife?

"Will?" she whispered, ever soft, her fingers covering his fidgeting hands, and he looked at her, surprised, though his gaze softened at the wistful expression in her eyes.

The remainder of the ride was short, and neither Will and Elizabeth nor the Governor exchanged another word, though each strove to maintain a state of placid contentment in their countenances. The carriage pulled unto a gravel and cobblestone driveway, long and wide, lighted with lanterns, and the horses slowed to halt before the entrance to a mansion.

"Ah, here we are then," the Governor broke the silence, leaning to open the door of the carriage and stepping out, his eyes roving the property in appreciation.

Will followed suit, offering his arm to Elizabeth as she stepped out after him. She cast him a stiff smile, intending to lift her hand from his as soon as she stood, but he grasped it, his thumb moving in a circle against her palm, before he released her. Her smiled broadened, pleased that the power of societal propriety had seemed to loosen its hold on him.

The couple followed the Governor to the front door and inside the mansion, a mansion Will and Elizabeth well-recognized. Not yet owning a home of their own, Elizabeth remained living in her father's home; Will had been allowed to reside there as well, given a room down the hall from Elizabeth's. That room had not been disturbed yet, still pristine with the covers on the bed crisp and untouched.

As the butler took their coats, the Governor spoke. "Will, Elizabeth, shall you have tea in the drawing room or do you wish to retire now?"

They glanced at one another, and Elizabeth said, "No thank you, Father, we are both rather tired."

"All right, then," he smiled. "Good night, dear." He kissed Elizabeth on the forehead. "Will," he nodded, and shook his hand. "I'll see you two in the morning, then."

"Good night, Father."

"Good night, Governor Swann."

They ascended the staircase, Elizabeth shaking her head in vehemence at a maid who offered to run a bath. They reached Elizabeth's room and they entered, securing the door behind them.

"Ah," Will broke the silence as the latch turned to lock the door.

Elizabeth glanced towards him, the gleam in her eyes mirroring her sentiment.

"Tired?" he questioned as he shrugged off his vest and took Elizabeth's gloves, placing them on the dresser.

She sighed and looked down, aware of the discomfort caused by pressure of her bodice. "Just a bit." She looked up again, into his eyes, and smiled. "Thank goodness we're home."

She then moved to the bedside table, removing her earrings, and then sat down upon the bed, taking off her heeled shoes and stockings so that her feet and legs were bare. Will remained by the door, watching her, her figure illuminated by the several candles burning in the room.

"Yes, thank goodness," he replied, letting out a long breath withheld.

Elizabeth returned to him in a swift movement, just as swift as she had moved to remove her affects.

Their eyes met, their smiled broadened, and in that instant, the pretense was dropped.

Will gathered her within his arms and kissed her, feeling her pulse quicken as he brought his hand to rest against her neck. She sighed, easing her fingers through his dark brown locks, and nestled close against him, until both broke from the kiss. She wrapped her arms about his neck, laying her head against his shoulder as he embraced her, his grasp firm and protective about her hips. After a moment, his hands loosened, and she stepped back a bit. Her eyes, large as cat's eyes, gleamed a brilliant gold as she gazed at him, her lips rosy and smiling. He chuckled, the sound deep and lovely, as he pressed his lips to hers again, this time gently, briefly. The scarce bristles across his jaw, the slight mustache, grazed her skin, sending a shiver down her spine, and her fingertips moved to touch that jaw, to linger over his fine features.

"Mmm," he sighed at the touch of her hand and murmured, "I need to shave."

She laughed, an involuntary shiver passing through her once more as the bristles scratched against her palm with the movement of his jaw as he spoke.

"Don't," she answered before moving away from him. "Shall I run a bath? I suppose I shouldn't have sent Marianna off."

"If you wish," he responded with a smile.

She eyed him with curiosity in her look. He was rolling up his sleeves, and then he removed the loose tie which bound his hair, the curled strands falling across his neck.

"Will you help out of this?" she asked, drawing her hair over one shoulder, and stood with her back to him.

"Of course," he replied, and she felt his fingers untying the laces of her gown in deft execution. She sighed as his hands brushed across the top of her shoulders, pushing down the sleeves of the heavy gown, and it fell from her body, pooling in a heap of golden material at her feet.

She let out a relieved breath and did not have to ask him as he undid the lacing of the corset, and it too fell from her and unto the floor, leaving her in a light chemise.

"Oh, thank God," she murmured, pressing her hand to her chest as she breathed. "I'll be thrilled when this season is over.'

"Well my dear, it wasn't a complete disaster," Will responded, attempting to perceive the ball in a positive light.

Elizabeth turned around to look at him, her expression haughty.

"It was merely…"

"It was a complete disaster, Will," Elizabeth insisted, her hand still at her chest. "I don't know why these people can't seem to get into their heads that we are married. Married, for heaven's sake! They needn't look at us as if we're some disgrace, some scandal."

Will shook his head, and on impulse, pulled her against his chest, backing up into the bed. She gasped, her potential words silenced as he nuzzled his face into her neck, absorbing the sweet scent of her perfume, before kissing her full on the lips, his arms wrapped about her waist. She melted into his embrace, feeling at once utterly safe, utterly protected, utterly cherished. She felt her pulse quicken, felt a surge of love course through her, and returned the kiss with passion, only breaking away to whisper against his lips,

"I love you."

He then stood, holding her, and lowered her to the bed, gazing upon her, his fingers stroking her cheek.

"You needn't listen to those people, my darling, you needn't heed words said or unsaid. For we are married, and I have you here and now, and that is all that matters."

Elizabeth emitted a sharp sigh, feeling a heady pressure from within her heart, and held out her hand, beckoning him in earnest. He sat down on the side of the bed with his back towards her, and removed the bothersome adornments of his vesture. He felt Elizabeth's fingers tracing a pattern across his back, and turned to her as he removed his shirt, tossing it away before he lay beside her. She arched up towards him on instinct, kissing him fervent abandon. He groaned, easing his fingers through her hair, and his lips traveled down her jaw to her neck and collarbone, his hands removed from her hair and seeking beneath her chemise, pushing the thin material aside. Elizabeth moaned as his roughened fingertips brushed against her legs and then rested against her abdomen, her ribs.

"Oh, Will," she whispered, her head back, her eyes closed. His touch was soft, caressing, gentle.

"Are you hurt? Did the corset hurt you?' he voice was deep and soft, concerned.

Elizabeth's eyes fluttered open. His hands continued to massage her ribcage.

"No, no I'm all right," she answered, slightly breathless. It failed to matter how many times he did this, how many nights after the ball they would return home, and after she was undressed, he would touch her, examine her for any sign of pain caused by the tightness of her stays. It failed to matter, for each time was like the first, and the feeling within her was indescribable.

"Are you certain, darling?"

"Yes," she muttered, warmth spreading through her as tears pricked her eyes.

He looked up, his hands halting in their movement, and said, "Don't cry, darling."

Yet it was just those words which caused the salt to burn against her cheeks; it was just the tenderness of his expression as he flicked the wetness away with his fingertips that made her realize how loved she was, and she could not help but succumb to her emotions under his touch. Had she made the mistake of marrying the Commodore, had she bent under the will of societal propriety….Norrington would never have done this, never. Never would he have cared for her as William Turner did.

She swallowed, extracting herself from him as she pulled the chemise over her head and her body felt gratified by the cool air. Her eyes locked with his and he enveloped her in a soft embrace, kissing the areas where his hands had been.

"I love you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he revered her.

Tears, sparkling diamonds upon her lashes, glimmered upon her cheeks, and she kissed him deep then, sinking into the sublimity of silk and cotton and lips and skin, the heady sensations, the singular and mesmeric presence of her husband, rending her senseless on every facet save for the conviction of the love which burned in an undying flame, increasing in heat and brightness, too potent to ever ebb into a wisp of smoke.

The possibility of a bath was long forgotten, the pain of propriety vanishing altogether as lightness ascended upon the world, bright and palpable, striking and luculent, the lazily golden dawn sun replacing the pearly-silver moon in the lazuline sky.

* * *

Heat from the sun's rays permeated throughout pale gray clouds, sunlight intermixing with drizzles of rain to form colourful mirages of light, the moist emissions pattering and streaming through the glass apertures and crevices, glancing off hanging mirrors and crystal vases garlanded with carnation and lilac, simulating continued, extended, hazy ribbons of kaleidoscopic colour. A golden clock with swinging pendulum emitted tintinnabulations. The mansion was beginning to stir and awaken, the servants already preparing breakfast in the early hour.

The maid Marianna passed by William Turner's room without a glance. She had learnt of its vacancy within two days of Mr. Turner's arrival to reside in the mansion. As she reached the room of her charge, Elizabeth Swann—nay, Turner—she considered knocking, lifting her hand, but quite decided against it. 'Twas dawn, Mr. Turner was not yet back in his room to keep up the appearance of him having been there all along, and the sound of silence offered the presumption that the couple slept still. Marianna lowered her hand and continued down the hall, opening drapes as she did so. She would return in an hour, as the Governor would expect them to breakfast at the usual time. But supposing they still slept? Should she disturb them? Were she to follow the Governor's instructions, she would have disturbed them already. Were she to follow Mrs. Turner's instructions, she was to go to the breakfasting room at the usual time, finding the Governor seated as usual at the head of the table, newspaper in hand. She was to explain that Mrs. Turner was feeling a little unwell, not fit enough to come down to breakfast, but would be better by the afternoon. What of Mr. Turner? He had left for the smithy early, remembering some urgent orders that need be filled before noon. She would not be questioned further, no, for the Governor respected his daughter's privacy and trusted Marianna to stay with her until she was fit to come downstairs. He did not question Will's presumed sudden disappearance, for the lad was hard-working, and if not in the company of Elizabeth and himself, he was at the smithy.

Marianna ruminated over the details as she peered out the large hallway window. It was not the first time she would cover for her mistress, nor, she presumed, would it be the last.

On the other side of the door, the slumbering forms of Will and Elizabeth Turner were completely oblivious to the world beyond their own. The room remained shrouded in darkness, the drapes closed against the morning. A muffled clattering sounded in Elizabeth's ears, and her eyes opened. The day had begun downstairs. It was still early; her mind was heavy and fuzzy with sleep. As her eyes began to close, her gaze fell upon the figure of her husband, his broad back to her. She smiled, filled with excitement and satisfaction that she was not alone, that he had not gone to his room for propriety's sake.

In the dimness, she reached out her hand and touched his shoulder. He murmured an incoherent nothingness and turned to his other side, facing her, and with his eyes still closed, his arms wrapped tight around her body, keeping her back flush against his chest. A purring sigh escaped her throat as she felt his warm body against hers, and she nestled against him, slipping her fingers through his, and closed her eyes, succumbing to sleep that was light and hazy. At intermittent moments, she felt the shifting of his chest, the movement of his fingers against hers, until he rolled away from her, and she lay on her back, floating in and out of sleep for perhaps moments, perhaps hours. Like a reassuring breath, she heard him, a soft sound, the soft utterance of her name, and he drew close to her, his arm dashing across her waist as he pressed his lips to hers in a languorous kiss, his dark eyes heavy-lidded as they bore into hers.

"Ah…Will," she whispered as he broke, and he peppered kisses along her collarbone and between her breasts, his hands kneading the length of her torso. He sighed, resting his head against her shoulder, and then looked at her again, a deep, penetrating look.

As he gazed into her eyes with that expression of intensity, a vehement gleam, she felt a deep-ingrained weight within her heart, heavy and secure, well-embedded, transcending past her being and through her soul.

"Elizabeth," he whispered, his quiet voice laced with desire intermingled with reverence.

She looked at him, studying him, and was overpowered by his presence, somewhat frightened by it, and she wondered what he would do, whether he…

He pressed his lips against hers, firm, and his teeth grazed her lower lip. His hands floated across her chest, against her arm, and he grasped her wrist, at first brushing his lips there, and then biting it. Biting her skin in assured gentleness, as if claiming her for his own.

Elizabeth's heart burst and she felt that ingrained weight within to a degree almost painful. She was consumed with love for him. He was to her a lover, a best friend, a father, and a son. He was everything, everything that mattered anymore. Her heart, her soul, belonged only to him. She curled close against him; drawing her fingers across the mark he left upon her skin, she worshiped the heavens for allowing her such proximity to pure, unadulterated bliss, such proximity to unimaginable, unparalleled love.

As she drifted back to sleep, feeling Will's soft breaths against her hair, she made up her mind to thank Marianna, to give her due payment for her service of insincerity to the Governor.

For so long had Elizabeth thought, 'Oh God, if only we were married…'

Now she thought, 'Oh God, if only we had a house of our own…'

Steady, steady, they progressed against propriety, starting with lounging in the sanctuary of a bedroom together. Against propriety.


	2. Progress: Part II

Progressing Against Propriety

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the genre.

A soft breeze whistled through the terrace; the palms rustled, shimmering with the slightest glint of dew, reminiscent of the dawn rainfall. Dazzling beams of sunlight filtered throughout the arbours, shimmering upon the lithe atmosphere through clusters of ivy and morning glory which cascaded in virid and amethyst ripples across the brick fortifications, spindling down through the white posts of a gate leading into a quaint portico, a charming garden. Afternoon, and the day grew heavy and lackadaisical. The clock struck half past two and the glass patio doors opened to the garden, the gossamer curtains fluttering with the breeze. The servants filed out with trays bearing teas and cakes.

The Governor of Port Royal strolled about the grounds, along the gravel path surrounded by azaleas. A pot of tea and several porcelain cups were arranged upon the table on the shaded porch.

"Thank you, Charlotte," a woman at said table murmured. She looked at the serving maid with hazel eyes gleaming, nodding, and the maid bowed, taking her leave.

"Ah, is the tea set?" the Governor called, walking back towards the porch.

Elizabeth sighed, looking towards her father, then extracted her silk fan from within the folds of her gown and fanned her face. Her chest heaved as she breathed, her discomfort increasing with the increasing heat in the prime of the day.

"You all right, love?" a soft voice inquired, and Elizabeth looked across the table into the eyes of her husband, who reached a hand out towards her.

She took his hand. "Yes Will, just hot."

Will was about to respond but faltered as the Governor approached. He attempted to extract his hand from Elizabeth's, but took firm grasp of it, offering him a look as she did so.

"Elizabeth, are you feeling quite well?" the Governor asked as he took a seat.

"Yes, of course. Why do you ask?" Elizabeth replied, bemused.

"Well, you were up in your room with Marianna the morning through." He lifted his eyebrows. "I suppose you are feeling better?"

Elizabeth blushed, though the heat of the sun upon her face covered her embarrassment. "Oh yes, much. Just a bit of faintness and a headache, nothing to be worried about," she answered, lowering her eyes to steal a glance at Will, who was also rather red in the face.

"I am glad to hear that," the Governor responded, pausing to spread jam on a scone. "And Will, my lad, I hope you were efficient this morning."

Elizabeth struggled to hold back a laugh as Will's ears burned scarlet.

"Indeed sir, work at the smithy is going swimmingly," he muttered. In fact, orders had been rather lax, and Will had not been to the smithy in a week's time.

"Lovely, lovely to hear. I'm proud of you, Will. You work hard, you're diligent and responsible, respectable. I must admit, I was wary of your marrying my Elizabeth…"

"Father!"

He silenced her with a warning finger. "Now just a moment, let me finish, Elizabeth."

She quieted, though was prepared to defend her husband, defend him even against her father.

"I was wary of your marrying my Elizabeth. I did not think it was a smart match. But the more I get to know you my boy, I realize what a fine man you've grown into. Why, with your conscientiousness, you could be a Lieutenant, maybe even Commodore some day," he finished with a kind twinkle in his eyes.

Will cleared his throat, a light of humility etched across his features. "Thank you for your kind words sir, but I don't believe I could join the navy."

"Why ever not, William? A fine man as you—blacksmithing is but a petty boy's hobby. The navy is really the station…"

"Father, please do not insult my husband's talent and integrity," Elizabeth interjected, her voice cool and firm, her eyes glittering.

"Elizabeth, do not interrupt, you're acting like a child," the Governor turned to her with disapproval in his countenance. "I am saying that the Governor's daughter deserves more than a blacksmith to support her through life. It was a fine and dandy apprenticeship when he was a boy, but Will is a man now, a man with potential influence, and…"

"For God's sake!" Elizabeth shrieked, rising to her feet with a flurry.

"Elizabeth!" The Governor exclaimed, shocked at her untoward behaviour.

"How dare you! I was almost convinced that you had accepted Will into the family with no qualms about who he is, but apparently I was wrong. I will not allow you to humiliate him like this! His profession is noble, he is the most reputable man I shall ever know, and if you hadn't noticed, he is the proprietor of the smithy now, and his craft is the finest I, and I am sure, you, have ever seen!"

She stood stiff and upright, her cheeks blazing red, her eyes like hardened crystals, her hair falling before her eyes. Will spoke not a word; his eyes were cast down and his arms folded, but he glanced up at Elizabeth and beheld the most beautiful sight he had ever laid his eyes upon.

"I shall not stand for this impudence!" the Governor cried as he threw down his napkin, and Will rose with a discreet movement, standing on the far side of the porch with his back to them. "If not for Will's impeccable behaviour under my roof, I would have a mind to throw the both of you out. I relay him the dinner hour, he attends promptly; I give him a room, he takes it with no complaints. He does not try to resist me in my efforts," the Governor fumed. "Perhaps he is a perfect match. Perhaps in time he will quell your raging temper and teach you a thing or two about decorum." He glared at Elizabeth and then strode towards the doors into the house. "Sit down and control yourself. You are highly unsuitable to be seen in public," he muttered at last before storming inside, the patio doors clattering closed behind him.

Elizabeth crumpled into her seat and covered her face with her hands as hot, angry tears slid down her scalding cheeks.

"My God!" she cried, her shoulders beginning to shake, only to be steadied by the firm pressure of hands. She felt breath against her neck.

"Elizabeth."

The fingers began to knead against her shoulder blades.

"Elizabeth," the voice said once more, insistent.

She spun about and looked into the face of her husband, who gazed upon her with heavy, worried eyes.

"You shouldn't speak to your father like that."

Elizabeth huffed, feeling the anger build up inside her and spill forth from her eyes again, and shrugged Will's hands away.

"Don't tell me what I can't do! Don't, don't…"

Will grasped her chin with his hand, and with a gruff look, interrupted her speech.

"Don't…" she whimpered as his lips crushed upon hers without mercy, his tongue flickering against hers, one hand set under her chin, the other holding her upper arm, keeping her back pressed hard against the chair.

Moment after moment passed, the sun dipped lower into the sky, until he released her, leaving her dizzy and breathless. She looked at him, wide-eyed, drawing her fingertips across her lips.

"Will…" she whispered.

His gaze was hard, but softened at the sound of her imploring voice.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, coming to kneel down beside her.

"No," she shook her head. "I was out of hand." She raised her eyes to look at him with vehemence. "But how can you stand it when he demeans you so?"

Will shook his head, releasing a sigh. "Elizabeth, I always knew I would never be good enough for you in his eyes. He wanted you to marry Commodore Norrington. I will never live up to his expectations of what a proper man for the Governor's daughter should be."

Elizabeth took his face in her hands and kissed him.

"Please don't ever say that again," she said with conviction, her eyes laden with sorrow. "You are everything to me, don't you know that? It is the Commodore who could never measure up to you, never."

"Oh Elizabeth," Will whispered, drawing her to him in a protective embrace.

"You still don't know how much you mean to me," Elizabeth muttered against his shoulder, her voice cracking.

Will pulled back, studying her face.

"All these years we've been together…how could I not love you?"

Will touched her face. "How many years I dreamed that you would love me. I thought…" He broke off, averting his eyes.

"What?" Elizabeth entreated.

"I thought that you _would _marry James Norrington, once he became Commodore."

A glimmer of shock reflected in Elizabeth's eyes. "Why?"

Will gave a short laugh. "You're the Governor's daughter. There was talk all over town. It was practically an arranged marriage."

Elizabeth felt ill, disgusted. She'd had no idea. No idea that…

"For how long?"

"Since you're debut," Will answered, surprised that she had not known.

Elizabeth gasped, feeling naive and deceived to the point of horror. Since she was sixteen, talk of her impending marriage to Norrington had circulated?

"Oh, God," she muttered, putting her hand to her chest, feeling quite faint.

"Elizabeth, are you all right?" Will caught her in his arms.

"Take me upstairs," she told him as he helped her stand.

"I'll have Marianne take…"

"No, you shall take me!" Elizabeth insisted, clinging to his arm as a wave of dizziness swam before her.

"But if someone sees, if your father…"

"Does it really matter, William?"

He silenced at the look in her eyes, at her sharp tone, and placing his arms about her, led her into the house, into the foyer, and they made their way up the staircase. Will stopped halfway to lift her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. She pressed her head against his shoulder, her eyes closed. She looked so delicate, so innocent, this strong and fiery woman.

Will entered the bedroom, taking care as he placed Elizabeth on the bed before turning back to close the door.

"Lock it."

Not wishing to further upset her, he did so, and with a sigh, he walked to her, sitting on the edge of the bed. Elizabeth's eyes locked with his; she lay there on her back, her golden hair had come loose and surrounded her face like rays of the sun. Her lips were startling pink. Without a thought, Will bent down and kissed her, and to his surprise, she moaned into the kiss, her hands reaching around his neck, twisting into the locks fallen loose from the tie which bound his hair.

"I want you, Will," she said, her lips grazing his earlobe.

He drew in a sharp breath, pulling back, gazing down at her, tantalizing.

He licked his lips, drawing a hand over her hair.

"You're unwell, Elizabeth."

She shook her head, looking sad, determined. "It was the heat, the heat and…"

Her chest heaved, and she pushed away from him, turning to sit with her back to him; her hands grasped the headboard.

"Please," she muttered.

Without a word, Will untied the laces, undid the fastenings, and Elizabeth cast off the bodice, murmuring, "It's so hot. Damn, if only I were on a ship again, free, I wouldn't have to deal with such…"

Will placed his hands on her shoulders, urging him to turn to look at him.

"Elizabeth, what are you speaking of? What is the matter?"

Worry, evident, gleamed in his eyes.

She turned to look at him, her expression serious, beautiful.

"I want to sail away on a ship, get away from here. I'll enlist Captain Jack Sparrow if that's what it takes. We just need to leave here."

"Elizabeth…" He gasped at her, incredulous. "Elizabeth love, what are you talking about? Are you sure you're all right?"

"My God, Will!" she exclaimed, irritated. "You must hate this as much as I do. Sneaking to be together. Forced to act in accordance with propriety. Facing humiliation with every ball we attend."

"Elizabeth, these are things we must learn to live with."

Elizabeth groaned, exasperated. "I have learnt to live within the walls of English society for as long as I can remember, and I've grown quite tired of it all. And I know you don't enjoy parading around these stiff English balls, pretending you care. You're a darling; you bear these events for my sake, but you shouldn't have to," Elizabeth exclaimed, her eyes bright, as she grasped his hands.

Will smiled slightly. "Elizabeth, you have never been conventional, you have always sought adventure. But is the path you desire the soundest one?"

Elizabeth frowned, disheartened by the truth of Will's words. He was so rational, the anchor to her wayward boat.

"All I know is that I cannot bear this much longer," she responded softly. "Just the knowledge of my engagement to Norrington being rumoured since my debut…it just sickens me. I never loved him. You know that, right?"

He smiled warmly. "Of course. I never doubted your love to me; only the means by which you showed it."

Elizabeth laughed, hitting him against the arm.

"Mmm," Will sighed, kissing her. "You are a crafty and clever woman, Elizabeth Swann."

She raised her eyebrows. "I assume that is a compliment. If so, you must trust my abilities to get us out of Port Royal, should you choose to come with me, that is."

Will gazed at her with love and incredulity in his eyes. "You're not going to change your mind about this, are you, my stubborn love?"

She shook her head with a bright smile, crawling towards him and kissing the area of his chest revealed by the open v-neck of his shirt.

She pushed him down onto the mattress, straddling him, her fingers working in deft flutters to unbutton the shirt, the longs strands of her hair tickling the exposed areas.

Will gazed at her, sliding his hands against her thighs. She threw her head back, sighing, her hands pressed against his chest.

"Oh, Elizabeth, I love you," he murmured, his voice rough, his caresses reaching her hips. "I want you."

She looked down at him, sliding further, peeling the shirt from his sculpted form.

"I am yours; take me," she whispered, and he stole her lips for his own as the late afternoon sun streamed into the room and the door was locked and the Governor was quite offended when dinner was announced and they failed to adhere to the mandate of prompt attendance.


	3. Progress: Part III

Progressing Against Propriety

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of this genre.

Hazy vermillion radiance filled the sky as late afternoon transformed to dusk. Will Turner gazed down upon his wife, curled beneath him, wisps of hair veiling her face like pools of honey against her pale golden skin. He smiled in affection for her, brushing the strands aside, and watched her for a moment, her eyes closed, a soft smile lacing her lips. He leant down and kissed her on the forehead before turning over to glance at the chiming clock on the mantelpiece, curious at the time.

"Good heavens," he muttered in surprise and sat up straight, intending to rise, though was hindered by a restraint upon his leg, and looking down, he found Elizabeth's leg entwined with his. He looked into her face and saw mischief there.

"William, where are you going?" she asked, leaning up to him, exposed.

His eyes widened as he extracted himself from her, drawing up the sheets as he muttered, "Elizabeth, it's past five o'clock, we're late for dinner."

Elizabeth giggled at his nervousness, pushing the sheets from herself, and grasped his arm, sidling up to him. "Stop worrying, Will, we're in no hurry," she purred, kissing his jaw.

Something flared inside of him and he groaned before pushing her away. "Elizabeth, I think we've caused enough trouble for one day, we should really…"

"Oh, but Will, I have so much more trouble in mind," she cajoled, wrapping her arms about his neck.

"Elizabeth," he muttered, resistance apparent in his voice, yet not in his actions as his hands settled at her hips and he pressed his forehead against hers, inhaling as his eyes closed.

"Come now, Will," she whispered, pressing quite close against him. "Would you refuse me something I so desire?"

His eyes snapped open, and he opened his mouth to speak, though faltered, a whimper escaping his throat.

A satisfied smile radiated upon her face, and she pushed him down onto the mattress with ease, her fingers tracing the contours of his chest. "Oh Will," she said, a hint of disapprobation in her voice. "I love you, and I had hoped that you felt the same, but if you're inclined to leave me alone, wanting you…"

Will grasped her wrist as she attempted to move away from him, a gruff laugh emitting from his throat, already weary of the seductive game she was playing. A flicker of desire shown in her eyes and she smiled, leaning down to kiss his chest.

"You are in an amorous mood, aren't you?" he muttered, his fingers weaving through her hair.

A slight shift of her body gave her leverage to press against him, and her eyes glowed in response. "Mmm, so are you."

With a sleight of hand, Will flipped her to her back, rapt as his hands laid claim to her body. She hissed as his callous-roughened fingertips chafed her skin and gasped as his lips parted from hers, moving to caress her throat, her collarbone, his fingers setting her skin on fire, and as his tongue, his teeth, grazed her, she felt she would burst from anticipation and cried out his name, crying out as he—

"Ms. Swann!"

Will sprung away from her body as if he was burned, all but leaping from the bed, his face a picture of shock, his breathing heavy. Elizabeth bolted straight up, hugging the sheets to her chest and stared at the door.

"Ms. Swann?" the voice called again, and Elizabeth recognized it as Marianna's. "Your father is expecting you to dinner; he wonders what is keeping you."

Elizabeth attempted to calm her breathing as she glanced at Will.

"Marianna?" she finally called.

"Yes, Ms. Swann?"

"Tell him we—I mean, I—I'm sorry we lost track of the time…I mean, no, I…"

She bit her lip, flustered.

"Ms. Swann, your secret is safe with me," Marianna assured.

Elizabeth blushed. She hadn't realized Marianna had known what she and Will were all about. Of a sudden, Elizabeth felt dense. Of course Marianna had known. What else would she deduce from Elizabeth's orders to lie about her and Will's whereabouts?

"Tell father…"

Elizabeth rose from the bed, creeping to the door, her lips close to the frame.

"Yes?"

Elizabeth's voice was steady and soft as she answered, "Tell him we'll be down momentarily."

"Shall I assume Mr. Turner is in his room?" Marianna asked.

"Yes," Elizabeth hissed in a whisper.

"All right Ms. Swann, come down when you've quite refreshed yourself," she said in a more elevated tone of voice.

Elizabeth remained close to the door, listening to Marianna's footsteps as she crossed the hall, and knocked on the door to Will's given room.

"Mr. Turner?" Marianna's voice called. "Yes? All right, sir, I'll announce that you will be coming down to the Governor straight away."

Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief once she heard Marianna's footsteps upon the stairs. She turned to look at Will, who held a towel in one hand about his waist, and had her silk robe in his other hand.

"Here, put this on," he muttered, approaching just close enough to her to wrap the robe about her shoulders, then backing up before she could touch him.

"Aren't you in a hurry," she remarked, raising her brows with a smirk.

"I knew something like this would happen," he said, irritation and fear filtering into his voice edgewise.

"Do you regret it, Mr. Turner?" Elizabeth asked, stepping close to him, backing him into the bedframe.

"Certainly not," he answered, earning a smile from her. "But really, Elizabeth, we must go down. This is not quite proper…"

She pouted, placing her hands on his chest, charm erupting in her eyes. "I was not quite finished with you yet."

"Ah…" Will's words were left still in the air as Elizabeth kissed him with teasing firmness, the tip of her tongue flickering against the corner of his lips.

Will was ready to forget about the obligation to go downstairs, about to forget all the obligations in the world as Elizabeth's lips enticed him.

The booming voice of the Governor was yet enough to break them apart, and Will left her, quite bereft, as he gathered the articles of his clothing strewn about the floor.

"He'll notice that I hadn't changed my clothing."

"Just put on your vest, you'll be fine," Elizabeth answered, a tinge of bitterness in her voice.

Will changed in rapid obligation, straightening his garments to suitable presentation, before approaching Elizabeth. She stood with her robe tied about her, her back to him and her arms folded, as she stared at her changing screen.

"Elizabeth," he murmured, coming to wrap his arms around her.

She sighed, leaning back into the support of his body, and said, "I wish things were different."

"You are my wife; that is my first and only happiness," he responded, and Elizabeth frowned, a tear sparkling in her eye, as she realized how selfish she was being.

She pushed away from him and plucked her corset from the floor.

"I suppose I'll put this on again."

"No you won't," Will said, taking it out of her hands. "Have you a gown that laces tight in the front?"

She smiled. "I believe I do." She walked passed the changing screen and into the closet, her hands brushing over the numerous gowns, until she settled on one a deep sapphire blue. She pulled it out and held it before her.

"Will this do?"

The gown was simple yet elegant, with black lacing on the bodice and black lace embellishment on the sleeve.

She smiled when Will failed to answer, draping the gown over the screen, and then loosed the silk robe, and it fell into a heap at her feet, leaving her bare. Will cleared his throat and moved to stand by the door while she changed. In but few moments, she revealed herself; she was stunning, a temptress and a goddess.

"What do you think?" she asked.

Will studied her, unable to hide the admiration in his gaze. "It's perfect, you're beautiful."

"Even without the corset?"

"Especially without," he smiled. A rose hue coloured her cheeks as he glanced down at her chest.

"I'll just fix my hair then, and we'll go down," she said, and sat down at the vanity mirror, twisting her locks and holding them place with a few spare clips. She startled as she saw Will's face reflected in the mirror behind her. He smirked, passing a hand through his curls. He then extended his hand, and she accepted it, and they both rose.

"And how do I look?" he asked with a grin.

"Ravishing," she replied.

He pecked her on the cheek, and then muttered, "You go out first, and I'll go into my room once you reach the top of the staircase."

"And then?" she asked amused.

He pressed his lips close to her ear. "And then you will start walking down the stairs. I'll come out and shut the door behind me, and I'll greet you and take your arm, and we'll walk down the stairs, and pause when we reach the foyer."

Her breath quickened as his lips grazed her cheek.

"Pause?"

Will nodded. "We'll pause, and I'll look at you and try not to ravage you on the spot, and then we'll enter the dining room."

"God, Will, stop," she whispered, irritated, her heart fluttering. He chuckled, doing as she wished, and opened the door, waiting for her to pass through.

"Have you a story ready?" he asked her as she walked past him.

"Yes," she answered, and glared at him. "Do you?"

He smiled with ease. "Of course."

She continued to glare at him for a moment before sweeping elegantly to the top of the staircase, hearing Will slip behind her and enter his room. As she descended the first few steps, she heard a door shut, and Will addressed her as if it was the first time he had seen her that day. She returned the greeting, unable to resist a smile. They continued with the plan, though Elizabeth refused to pause once they reached the foyer, and they strode into the dining room, where Governor Swann sat at the head of the table, an unreadable expression on his face. Elizabeth sat down at his right, Will at his left.

"I apologize for being late, Father. I took an afternoon nap and failed to realize how late I slept. Thankfully, Marianna woke me in time for dinner," she looked up at him and cautioned a smile.

He looked at her, but did not answer. "Marianna, did you find Mr. Turner so employed?" he addressed the chambermaid, who stood by the entryway.

"Mr. Turner was writing orders at his desk, sir."

Elizabeth glanced at her, feeling a twinge of nervousness. Using the same excuse twice in one day...

"Really? I was under the impression you had finished this morning," he addressed Will.

Will cleared his throat. "Not quite, sir. I had just a spot of business to clear up this afternoon. I received a commission from Lieutenant Greys, requesting a sword. I decided to put my apprentice on the charge; his skills are quite sharp."

The Governor looked quite pleased. Elizabeth gazed at Will in surprise. His story was a very good one, and very believable. She wondered if he were speaking the truth. Nonetheless, she was impressed by him, his assuredness and authority over the situation.

"What good news, Will," she said with a smile. He returned the smile, a twinkle in his eyes. Her eyes turned curious, unsure what he was about.

"Indeed. Lieutenant Greys is an esteemed acquaintance of mine, Will. I would have suggested your services to him had he had not sought them himself."

The servants just then entered, bearing trays, and set the evening's meal before them.

The three were silent for a moment, though the Governor recommenced the conversation once the servants left them.

"I hope you have seen reason since this afternoon, Elizabeth," he said as he took a bite.

"Yes, I do apologize Father. I shall never in act in such a manner again."

She cast her eyes down, looking quite remorseful.

"Good," he answered. "I raised you as a lady, I expect you to act as such."

"Yes," she responded.

The remainder of the meal was quiet, with snatches of idle conversation brought up. Elizabeth stirred at her food with her fork, feeling rather disinclined to eat, her appetite nonexistent. Will took polite bites, chewing slowly, apparently lacking in appetite just as much as she. She was quite content sitting and watching him until the Governor asked her whether she disliked the meal. She shook her head in response and took several bites. The meal was rather palatable, though her palate was not satiated. Her hunger could not be satisfied by food. She smiled, raising her foot against Will's leg. He jerked, uttered a low cough, and caught her eye. It was his turn to glare. She placed her foot back on the floor, but grinned at him across the table, fancying sneaking off to the beach for a picnic under the pretense of turning in for the night. As her imagination run amok, the Governor asked,

"Have you plans for this evening, Elizabeth?"

"What?" she startled, looking at him.

"I must meet the council at the fort tonight to go over important matters of business."

"Well, I am sure Will and I can keep ourselves occupied," she answered, throwing a pointed glance at her husband.

"I wish you to accompany me. It should prove quite informative, especially for you, Will."

Elizabeth scowled. "Father…"

"Come along then. After you've finished, gather your coats and meet me in the foyer," the Governor continued, and rose, passing through the door.

"Are you going to eat, Elizabeth?" Will asked in concern, noting that she had taken but a few reluctant bites.

"No," she answered, and stood, beginning to walk towards the doorway. Will appeared at her side, taking her arm.

"Don't sulk, my love. We will more than make up for it tonight," he whispered in a roguish tone.

Elizabeth looked at him with a smile, her heart on fire. "I'll keep you to your word, Mr. Turner."

Will assumed a smug air and walked into the foyer with Elizabeth on his arm, leaving her side for a moment to gather a coat in the closet, and the three set off in a carriage, the beginning of a long night.


	4. Stalemate: Part I

Progressing Against Propriety

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of this genre.

A/N: Warning: This chapter includes dark themes *Edited for clarification purposes*

The chiming of the clock echoed with dull reverberations throughout the mansion, dark and austere, the windows pierced with a sheen of obsidian occlusion, the crystal tumblers twinkling a sinister silver through the clear glass pantry doors in the study. The clanging was deep as the bronze pendulum swayed, and the black, trembling hand of the clock settled upon the tenth hour. Toll after toll and the immaculate floor, translucent marble in the darkness, quavered with each strike, the sounds rebounding against the walls, the windowpanes, the chandelier. As the tenth toll quieted, absorbed into the thick atmosphere, the house was cast over with a stagnant hush.

Footsteps against the marble, bells jangling. An orb of light, a hazy circle of marigold, scintillated in the shadows. Locks clicked, and the mansion became awake and alive once more, the façade of darkness cast off, as golden light filled the foyer. The marble was taupe and patterned, the windows glossy, being drawn closed by white diaphanous drapes. Wheels screeched and skidded upon gravel, and clattering steps halted. The grand mahogany doorway opened with a creak. Three figures, dark and cloaked, appeared on the threshold, floating on a cloud of smoke, wraithlike, black garments rippling outwards. Pale fingers grasped at the hoods, and light shown upon the figures as the hoods were cast off. Shimmering droplets of water streamed down the cloaks. The door closed against the steady pattering of rain, against the stableman leading the horses through the downfall.

"Governor Swann, Mr. and Mrs. Turner, are you quite all right?"

The first cloaked man turned towards the butler. "Yes, Charles, just a spot of rain. Please take our coats."

"Yes, sir. I'll have them laundered straightaway," the man replied, and proceeded to slip the damp garments from the shoulders of the Governor, and the wedded couple.

The couple stepped into the light. The woman shivered, strands of moist hair clinging to her brow. The gentleman at her right bore a grave expression as he walked towards the stairs, his hand upon the woman's arm.

Footsteps scurried into the foyer. "Ms. Swann!" The maid Marianna looked upon her charge in surprise. "I shall run a bath for you."

"For me as well, Marianna, if you don't mind," the gentleman interjected as the maid began the ascent upstairs. She looked down at him with a raised eyebrow. "Of course, Mr. Turner."

Imperceptible, the woman looked at the gentleman, her husband, with an importunate expression in her eyes. He failed to respond to it.

"What did you think of the Admiral's proposition, William? It is an opportunity not to be disregarded; Lieutenant Greys has made his way up the ranks superbly, and I believe…"

"May we speak of this subject later, Governor?" the gentleman interrupted, and the Governor looked at him in surprise. He had never once been disrupted or put off by the young man. "Well, certainly. I am sure you're rather exhausted. A bath will do you good, both of you. I believe I shall retire to my room as well," he answered.

Will nodded, his jaw set. He neither looked nor spoke to the woman, his wife, though maintained his grasp upon her arm and followed the Governor along the winding staircase. The second floor was warm and inviting; running water was heard through several rooms.

"I shall see you in the morning then," the Governor said as he turned down the hall.

"Yes, sir," Will murmured; his wife remained mute. He turned and stopped at her door, releasing her. She opened it and looked at him, her hazel eyes studying his.

"Will?" she whispered in inquiry. He simply stood for a moment, quiet. "Come in," she requested, beckoning with her hand.

"I…can't Elizabeth," came the hoarse mutter.

Pain filled her eyes. "Will," she murmured, her voice stronger, demanding.

"I fancy a bath and then I shall retire," he said, turning to stride across and down the hall to his room.

"What is the meaning of this?" she hissed, catching him by the wrist in whir of her skirts, anger intermingled with the pain shining in her eyes, her lips pursed.

A flicker of uncertainty tainted his dark eyes, and he wrested his wrist from her grip, shaking his head, before turning to enter his room, and closed the door. Elizabeth gasped, her eyes piercing his doors like knives, and she stood there in the middle of the hall, unsure whether to enter and demand an explanation of him or to cry out his name until he returned to her. As she took a stepped forward, a voice resounded.

"Are you quite all right, Elizabeth?"

She looked up in sharp recognition, her eyes burning. "Yes, Father, just waiting for Marianna to finish preparing the bath." Her voice was strangely calm; she had grown so accustomed to conjuring tales on the spot.

"Sleep well, dear."

She cleared her throat, and his door clicked, and of a sudden, the house went dark, quiet. She was shrouded by night. Clenching her hands, she walked into her room, finding her bath filled with steaming water, new soap and a freshly laundered towel arranged for her use. With blind and mechanic movements, she unlaced her gown and stripped it from her shoulders. Lacking corset or layered undergarments, she stood bare, shivering, and then, placed the gown over a chair before lowering herself into the bath, sighing as the heat settled into her. The quiet was chilly; the steam seemed to have evaporated from the water's surface. As she glanced down at herself, bringing her knees against her chest, her eyes burned again, and she brought her hand against her forehead, shattering the silence with her tears, feeling neglected, dismissed, as if she were a prize to be won by an upper-class genteel man who cared for status rather than love.

"Where is my husband?" she whimpered to herself, and she realized that he had disappeared for the night an instant before they had departed the council meeting. He had been held behind by the Admiral a few moments; she and her father had waited out by the carriage; it had started to rain. The Admiral smiled and shook Will's hand, muttering in Will's ear. She leant back.

* * *

He leant back against the smooth surface of the tub, splashing water across his face, before stepping out, toweling, and slipping into night garments. He sat on the edge of the bed, fingering the before untouched sheets in absent gestures, staring at the crisp folds.

"Elizabeth," he muttered to himself, subconscious. He frowned, his face grim.

_'How would you like to join the ranks of the British Royal Navy, Mr. Turner?'_

A broad smile and encouraging words from the Governor. Lieutenant Greys' father, Admiral Greys, eying him up and down with a glint of interest and…something else in his blue eyes.

'_Thank you for your time gentleman, I shall have those matters taken care of,' the Governor nodded and bid the councilmen farewell._

'_A pleasure it has been, Governor,' Admiral Greys responded in cheer as the Governor placed an arm about his daughter's shoulders and the three started off—_

'_Ah, Mr. Turner?'_

_Will turned back in surprise._

'_Do you mind? I have a few words.' A steel smile._

'_Of course not, sir.'_

'_We shall wait by the carriage.' The Governor clapped Will's shoulder before turning to depart, Elizabeth in his wake, a look of wary curiosity in her eyes._

_The door closed and they were alone in the small, shadowed room._

_The Admiral paced before looking straight into Will's eyes. 'I have some information which may be of interest to you, Mr. Turner.'_

'_Yes?' Will responded, surprised. He began fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve under the Admiral's unwavering gaze._

'_As you know, Commodore Norrington is no longer with us. Of his own volition, he seeks the notorious Captain Jack Sparrow to send him to his rightful place at the gallows. Surely you've heard of him?'_

_Will swallowed. 'A mere acquaintance.'_

'_Ah.' The Admiral chuckled. 'Surely more than that? For why else would you and your darling wife be charged with crimes against the crown?'_

'_What?' Will exclaimed, his hands, his body, frozen still._

'_Treason, to be specific,' the Admiral continued, and stepped close to Will, eying him with interest. 'You, along with your wife, will be sent to the gallows along with Sparrow…'_

'_No, we have done nothing wrong! How dare you conjure this spiteful nonsense!'_

'_Not nonsense, Mr. Turner, look here,' Greys replied, pulling a sheaf of papers from a drawer in the desk, and unfolding them, he displayed a warrant of arrest bearing the signature of the King of England. Will glanced at the papers, and then turned to glare at the Admiral._

'_How did you come by these?'_

_The Admiral sneered, rolling the papers and placing them into his waistcoat pocket. 'I was entrusted them by the King himself, of course. But that is not what's important, is it?'_

'_No,' Will answered, circling. 'Why go to so much trouble over one pirate, over one man and his wife?'_

'_Jack Sparrow must settle a long-standing debt,' the Admiral answered with a glower. 'And you know the implications of your willing involvement. You are in no position to bargain with your own life, Mr. Turner.'_

'_I shall bargain with it!' Will insisted, reaching for the hilt of his sword._

'_Guards!' the Admiral called, and four men entered the room and surrounded Will, bayonets raised._

'_You shall meet your fate, unless you agree to my conditions,' the Admiral persisted, raising his voice._

'_What conditions?' Will asked in wary distrust, glowering._

_Admiral Greys sat at the wide desk in the middle of the room, his elbows on the table, and brought his fingertips together, his eyes staring over and across the table, never leaving Will._

'_You join the Royal navy, you help bring back Sparrow, the charges are dropped, the Governor need not be aware of the details.'_

_Will stood frozen in place for a moment, words failing to come to him._

_The Admiral smiled. 'I shall give you three days' time to think it over. After that…' He made a sweeping motion at his neck._

_Without a word, Will turned, his hand on the door handle._

'_Oh, I believe I did forget one other detail.'_

'_Yes?' Will half-turned._

'_You will leave your wife, annul your marriage.'_

'_Admiral—!' Will turned fully, his eyes blazing in anger._

'_Your lower-class blood taints the Swann breed.' His eyes gleamed in wicked pleasure.  
_

'_How dare you!' Will exclaimed, striding over to him, his fist raised. 'You disgusting chauvinist!' He charged at him, his eyes flaming, though the guards barred his way._

_The Admiral stepped. 'Mind your words and your fist, Mr. Turner, or you shall find your wife out of your grasp sooner than you think."  
_

_Will felt sick to the core, as if he had swallowed poison. Furious, his eyes blinded by blood-red hatred, he stormed out of the room into the pouring rain._

'_Three days, Mr. Turner!' A laugh._

Will screamed, he cursed, as he rose and slammed his fist into the iron frame of the bed in rage in repeated strikes until the blood pooled, angry and scarlet, upon his knuckles, dripping through his fingers, into his palm.

'Elizabeth!" he cried, his voice ragged, and he leaned, his body shuddering against the bedframe.

* * *

Water splashed as Elizabeth leapt out of the bath, tying her robe about her, and fled the room, hearing an anguished cry which seemed to pierce the night air like a shard of broken glass. She pelted through the darkness, prepared to meet a barred door, but the handle flew hard from her fingertips and she entered, hurrying the shadows, to the centre of the room. Her eyes roved, falling onto a figure gleaming in the moonlight, gleaming...

Her hands flew to her face in horror. "Will!" she cried, her eyes blinded by scalding tears as she tore across the carpet towards him, placing her hands upon his arms.

He looked at her, his eyes feral.

"Will, Will, what have you done?" she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks as her hands searched him, and she gasped as her fingertips grew searing and wet. She gasped, studying his face, numb and frightened by his blank and savage look. Gulping, she grasped his arms, muttering, "Come on, Will, you have to lie on the bed. Come on, come on." She pulled him until he moved, and she guided him to lie down, and his face maintained that grim expression. Making sure he would stay on his back, she turned for a moment, her fingers shaking as she lit a candle, her breathing erratic. As she turned to look at him in the light, a loud sob escaped her throat, and she only looked for a moment before hurrying to the washroom and dousing several cloths into the still-warm water, locating a dry towel and salve, and returning to his side, kneeling. The only sounds in the room were her loud, shaky breaths and her intermittent whispers of "No, no, no", as she wrapped his injured hands in the wet cloths, pressing them, and then drying them with painstaking care. The blood seeped into the cloths, the red a stark contrast against the white.

He did not move, he did not give any indication of awareness of her presence until she began to apply the salve. "Ah," he moaned, wincing, attempting to pull away.

'It's all right Will, this will help, I promise," she whimpered, her voice frail and broken.

At her words, he came to look at her, studying her face for several moments, the savage blankness in his eyes beginning to abate as he recognized her. Her eyes were cast down, focused on daubing the salve into the gashes without causing excessive discomfort. Her eyes remained lowered as she paused and muttered, "I must get bandages," and attempted to rise on weak knees, when he spoke her name.

She lowered her self in immediate response, gazing into his eyes. "Yes, Will, it's me."

"Elizabeth," he sighed again, drawing the fingertips of his unharmed hand over her cheeks shiny and damp with tears.

She smiled through her sobs and squeezed the hand. "My God, whatever happened?"

His eyes darkened, and he whispered, "Admiral Greys", before a dark shadow blurred his vision, and he could neither see nor feel any longer.

Elizabeth lay her head against his chest, her sobs reverberating through the night.


	5. Stalemate: Part II

Progressing Against Propriety

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of this genre.

Sorry for the ridiculous trouble of getting this uploaded!

* * *

The waning moon cast eerie effulgence through a room stark and bare, heavy and soundless, save for weary breaths lingering for naught but a moment before vanishing into the chilled atmosphere. An hour before dawn and the sky shone with blue light tinged with coral. Will Turner awoke, glaring into the dim shadows; the ethereal azure hues, the muddled pressure in his skull, the indistinctness of his sight, offered the illusion of an underwater grave, and for an instant, his limbs felt stiff and cold and damp, and his arms were chained by metal shackles to the sandy bottom. The cold filled his veins, filled his lungs, though as he attempted to wrench free, a burning jolt of pain slithered through his arms and heat flooded through him—his head burned like raging fires. Pressing his hands to ease the mounting pressure, he groaned at the introduced pain and looked about in wild confusion, realizing of a sudden his whereabouts, the reason he lay prostrate, the sudden turn of events which had sent the world tumbling about his ears, the sudden knowledge that his life's endeavours had been for naught. His meeting with the Admiral of the navy, correspondent of the King. His words, his bargain, his...

"Elizabeth!" Will rasped, cringing as he lurched forward, and the fire in his skull burned and pitched, inextinguishable, raging and burning, his eyes black and shot with red, nothingness, until a soft coldness cleared the dark vision and his eyes could see again in the blue room, searching, searching.

Elizabeth hauled herself from the floor and stood over him, laden with worry and fatigue. She adjusted a thin robe about her bare form, pushed her unkempt locks from her eyes.

"Will," she crooned, soft and loving, placing her hand on his forehead, hot to the touch, and eased her fingers through his curls. She breathed a sigh of relief as he opened his eyes. They roved, unfocused, before meeting hers. She smiled, stroking his face. "I'm watching over you, Will."

He raised a hand, placing it over hers, and whispered, "Elizabeth," reverent, as if he beheld an angel.

"Will darling, I'm so relieved you're awake," she whispered, drawing closer to study his features, touching his forehead once more. "You're terribly feverish," she muttered. "I must get you some water, ice cold."

"Elizabeth," he beckoned, reaching to touch her arm, halting her in her movements. She sat down on the edge of the bed, leaning over him.

"They haven't taken you."

Elizabeth looked at him in surprise. "Of course not. Shush now darling, you don't know what you're saying. I'll be just a moment to fetch the water…"

She rose and made for the door, her fingertips brushing the door handle, when his voice reached her ears, his voice, yet filled with fear, with undeniable agony.

"Don't leave me."

She turned back, tears pricking her eyes as she beheld him, her strong and brave husband weak and pain-ridden, yearning her presence as a child yearns the comforting care of his mother. She stepped towards him in a slow and quiet pace, astonished by the expression of alarm in his wide, dark eyes. His arms were extended to her, as if he expected her to gather him into her arms and rock him against her chest. She came to sit on the bed beside him, folding her legs beneath her, and wrapped her arms about his middle, meeting him in an embrace. His body was warm to the touch. She remained unmoving for a few moments, held within his arms, before she kissed his cheek and sat up, placing her hand against his jaw, drawing him to look at her. He had calmed in the few moments she had come to lay beside him.

"Will, what is the matter? You must tell me what happened. Can you tell me darling, please?" she asked, running her fingers across his cheek and through his hair as he leant his head against her shoulder. His eyes closed in response to her touch, he desired sleep, but she spoke again in ethereal tones, like an angel.

"Will, don't go to sleep now, please tell me."

His lashed fluttered and he looked into her beseeching eyes.

"What about Admiral Greys?" she prodded, and a memory, at first nebulous, and then startlingly clear, entered his mind.

Will's brow furrowed. "We are to be hung for aiding in the escape of Jack Sparrow. We are to be sent to the gallows with Jack Sparrow."

Elizabeth gasped. "But…"

"Unless we do what he wants."

"What does the Admiral have to do with this?" Elizabeth exclaimed.

Will looked up at her, a strange expression on his face. "He had the warrants, he holds the power."

Elizabeth shook her head in disbelief. "What does he want?"

"I join the navy, capture Sparrow, go free."

Elizabeth looked at him curiously. "Will you do it?"

Will shook his head, and flash of pain appeared in his eyes, and then he lifted his hand to touch her face. "Elizabeth…"

She smiled to veil her anxiety. "Will darling, will you do it?" she repeated, deducing he had not heard her.

"He wants you," he rasped, his eyes darkening, and he looked away from her.

"What do you mean?" Elizabeth scoffed.

"He wants me to leave you, I taint the Swanns, he wants you for him," Will muttered, and Elizabeth rapidly attempted to make sense of his muddled words, her hands flying to her face in shock and disgust.

"I can't believe this," she said, shaking her head as Will stared ahead, his expression blank yet grim, until he turned back towards her, his eyes searching hers, lost.

"Don't leave me, Elizabeth," he begged. There he was, a frightened child once more.

"Oh, Will!" she cried, laying her body atop his, wrapping her arms about his neck, tears springing in her eyes in sadness and anger, that her husband was her child, that happiness was hard won but easily lost. "Will, I would never leave you," she said, pressing her lips against his neck. She felt his hands rest against her hair, he didn't answer. "Don't even think that, darling, we'll find a way out of this, I promise. Will?"

She pushed herself up. His eyes were closed, his body lax, unresponsive. Fear clung to her heart in icicles. Numbly, she slipped away from him, careful not to make a sound as she passed through the door and raced down the staircase to the kitchen and pumped water into a basin. She looked about in quiet nervousness, fearful of being caught by one of the servants as the dawn hour arrived, the sun rising into the sky. Beams of soft sunlight filtered through the windows, setting the quiet mansion afire with a golden glow, and as Elizabeth ascended the stairs, rays touched her skin and sparkled in her eyes. Breathless, she hurried into the room, hoping she had escaped notice, and set to dousing fresh cloths into the basin, pressing them against Will's forehead, against his cheeks, against his chest, in hopes of abating the fever that had taken hold.

* * *

Marianna passed through the halls, opening drapes to admit bright morning sunshine. She took brisk steps past the west-wing guestroom, turning her heels instead, by way of habit, towards the room of her charge, Elizabeth Swann, and placing her ear against the door, she knocked. Waiting a few moments and receiving no answer, she called through the door, but as she exerted the slightest pressure, it opened, and Marianna found the room quite vacant, the bed sheets in the same crisp order as she had arranged them the evening previous. She pursed her lips in surprise. For two weeks, nigh on three, the morning ritual had not changed. Perhaps they had decided to take up in the guestroom, Will's room, Marianna conjectured, though she had no idea why. Closing the door, she crossed the hall and returned to the door she had, just moments before, passed, in all frivolity. So she knocked, she called softly, no answer. Her eyes widened. Perhaps they had taken off for an early outing? But so clandestine, how had they managed it? Placing pressure on the door handle, she was surprised when it gave way, and she peered through to the room. The sight she laid her eyes upon caused her to draw her eyes away in shock and embarrassment.

She had never once caught the two in a compromising position. She supposed she should have taken the hint, not entered the room without being called upon first. She turned to depart, but decided to slip into the washroom to collect the used towels to be laundered. She walked, quiet, and on her way, she glanced unintentionally upon the couple and saw that she was mistaken. Mr. Turner was clothed, laid upon his back, bath cloths upon his forehead; Mrs. Turner lay curled upon him, disheveled in appearance with her hair in untamed curls and her figure rather exposed, the material of a silk robe slipped from her shoulders and only just covering the upper part of her legs. She was small and innocent, a kitten.

"Oh my," Marianna uttered aloud, and her words were enough to stir Elizabeth from her slumber.

Upon recognizing the maid, Elizabeth sat straight up, her eyes wild, her limbs shielding her husband in a protective stance.

"Ms. Swann," Marianna addressed, unaccustomed to calling her by her wedded name, "May I help? Anything to be laundered, or shall I bring up some pears? I was just slicing them in the kitchen…" She rambled in her discomfiture. She approached. "May I take those cloths?"

"Don't touch him," Elizabeth murmured.

"Ms. Swann, if you please? If there is something wrong…"

"No, you stay away from him!" she demanded, blocking Marianna's view of him. She was fierce and bold, a tigress.

"Is Mr. Turner ill?" Marianna attempted once more.

Elizabeth glanced down, touching her husband's cheek.

"I shall send for a doctor," Marianna continued.

"No, don't!" Elizabeth turned back and stood; her robe hung slack and she was rather exposed, though she made no move to correct the indecency. "He is under my care, my care alone," she insisted, gazing in steady resolve at the maid.

Marianna fidgeted as she stood, unsure what to make of the woman's behaviour. Surely something was wrong?

"Miss, will you not at least dress and come down for some refreshment and consider calling a doctor?"

"No, I cannot leave him," she replied. "Please go. Go."

Marianna opened her mouth to protest, but lost her reserve under the gaze of her mistress. She faltered for a moment before turning and walking out of the room, hurrying along down the staircase, her feet carrying her to Governor Swann's study, and she knocked on the door, and was admitted with a welcoming though surprised greeting.

"Morning, Marianna. Fine one, is it not? Anything the matter?"

Marianna watched him as he swept his pen across parchment, and then he looked up at her with bespectacled eyes.

"Mr. Turner is ill, sir, and I believe, Mrs. Turner as well."

He seemed to want a laugh, but grew concerned at the maid's unwavering expression. "Heavens," he answered, removing his spectacles. "I can't think how it happened. They were perfectly well last night, perfectly."

"Perhaps it was the rain, sir," Marianna offered, though inwardly she begged to differ.

"Oh yes indeed, perhaps," the Governor agreed, pausing for a moment before asking, "Have you sent for a doctor?"

Marianna did not answer out right, wondering if she should divulge the strange insistences of Elizabeth.

"Yes. Yes sir, I did," she replied.

"Ah good. See what he has to say about this rain business," the Governor responded. "See that Ms. Swann is abed and bring her hot tea, will you? And do the same for Mr. Turner." The Governor then looked down at his work. Marianna received the hint to take her leave.

"Yes, sir," she replied, and stepped out of the study, closing the door behind her.

She sighed, looking up at the staircase. "Oh Ms. Swann, I shall do what you want of me, but will you divulge your secrets in return?" she wondered, and as she prepared tea in a kettle, she realized that she was a mere maid, not a female confidant. But Mr. Turner was a mere blacksmith. Perhaps she too could transcend the barriers of society? Yet hers was a station that could not be transcended. Even her predecessor, Estrella, who had vanished that night of the famed pirate attack, had been nothing more than a chambermaid, waiting on her charge, no intimate secrets shared. Marianna sighed, pondering the curious workings of society, of propriety, and feeling somewhat ashamed that she was aiding the Turners in crumbling those workings. For they were decidedly against propriety. They were about something larger than propriety, larger than English society itself; Marianna had yet to put her finger on it. She thought it might have to do with love, but laughed that thought away.

There was no such thing as love. Marriage and money, yes. Love, no. The Turners were playing at something, playing at something… She mused, carrying the tray of tea up the stairs, depositing it on the bedside table of the guestroom, and walked out without so much as a glance.

* * *

The bell clanged at the door, announcing a visitor as the nine o'clock hour struck.

"Admiral Greys, Governor," Charles the butler announced, knocking and entering the study.

"The Admiral? I shall see him in the foyer momentarily," the Governor replied, setting down his plume and straightening his waistcoat, thinking perhaps that the visit had something to do with William joining the ranks of the navy. He smiled, pleased, as he walked out of his study, and noted a tall man in brocade pacing the foyer.

"Ah, Admiral Greys," the Governor greeted, shaking the man's hand. "To what may I owe your visit this morning?"

The Admiral smiled, a steel smile. "I wish to speak with William Turner."

"Why, Admiral, the boy is resting with a bit of a head cold from the last night's rain."

"Oh really? Shame," the Admiral replied, looking down to adjust the cuff of his jacket sleeve. "Then I wish to have an audience with his wife, if you please," he continued, smooth as silver.

"Well Admiral, I fear that…"

"Ah!" the Admiral interrupted him as he looked to the top of the staircase. "I see there she is now. Mrs. Turner, I beg you to accompany me in the drawing room to discuss a matter of importance."

The Governor looked from the Admiral to the top of the staircase in shock, just noticing his daughter standing there. She was starkly white, dressed in the same sapphire blue evening gown, her hair streaming down, staring emotionless at the Admiral.

"Admiral," the Governor broke the momentary silence. "My daughter is extremely unwell. Please return at a later time when she is fit for a visit…"

"Nonsense, she's perfectly well enough for a chat," the Admiral insisted.

"I must check you, Admiral—my daughter is _not _fit for visitors this morning. I shall call upon you at a later time," the Governor interjected, his brows furrowed as he gestured to the door.

"Father, it's all right," Elizabeth's voice called down.

Both men looked up at her with surprise. She perhaps turned as shade paler, one hand at her throat, as she descended. "I shall see the Admiral privately in the drawing room," she said.

"Ah, splendid," the Admiral spoke and pushed past the Governor, taking Elizabeth's arm as she reached the foyer. Her arm burned to pull out of his grasp but she retained composure for the sake of propriety.

"Shall tea be brought in, madam?" Charles asked.

"No thank you, we'll only be a moment," Elizabeth answered, earning a cruel, covert smile from the Admiral.

"Very well, madam."

They crossed the foyer and entered the drawing room, clean and bright and quiet. Elizabeth removed herself from his grasp and sat down on the far couch. The Admiral took a seat across from her, surveying her with a critical eye. She did not meet his eyes, but stared in resolute defiance at the grandfather clock in the corner.

"I must say, you're looking a little worse for the wear, Mrs. Turner," the Admiral took the initiative to speak. "Married life with the scamp not treating you so well as you had hoped?"

Elizabeth turned her face to him, her eyes glittering in ferocity. "How dare you speak to me in that way!" she hissed.

The Admiral laughed, leaning back against the cushions of the couch. "Has Mr. Turner divulged our bargain? By your look, I deduce that he has."

"You dare judge me? You dare worm your way into our lives, oblivious of the consequences?" Elizabeth snarled.

"Consequences," the Admiral chuckled. "You failed to answer my question. Is it a deal or is it not?"

"You gave him three days," Elizabeth glared into his piercing blue eyes.

"Did I? I must be hasty then," he answered.

"Your words have no merit, you have no right to do this to us."

"Haven't I?" He tapped the pocket of his vest, from which the edges of parchment protruded.

"This is blackmail, and I shall see to it that you are behind bars for your distortion of the King's orders," she snapped.

"If you wish me to play nicely, Elizabeth-pet, you too have to play along," he said with a grin.

Agape, her eyes as cold as steel, blazing, she articulated in a low, menacing voice, "Do not call me that again. You have no idea who you are dealing with."

"If that is a challenge, I see you in the hangman's noose or in the bed of my son. Either way, I am satisfied."

Elizabeth felt bile rise to her throat and she struggled to contain herself.

"You see, I am not being selfish. I wish for my son to have you. If he does not want you…" he shrugged. "I certainly have no problem..."

"Get out," she gasped, rising to her feet.

"So soon?" he grinned.

"Get out now!" She turned away, pointing to the door, ready to gouge his eyes should he attempt to touch her, but in a moment, she heard his footsteps fade away, and his voice carried into the room from the foyer.

"Your daughter is lovely, as always, Governor, thank you. She is looking a bit peckish. See to that, will you Charles? Splendid, goodbye."

As the door closed, Elizabeth hurried out, struggling up the stairs as she felt a wave of nausea engulf her. Blindly, she reached the guestroom door, and groping her way to the washroom, was overcome by sickness, thereafter crumbling to the floor. Before succumbing to a veil of blackness, she felt a hand at her back, though her eyes lost focus before she could discern the identity of the figure who spoke her name.


	6. Stalemate: Part III

Progressing Against Propriety

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of this genre.

A hand upon her back, soft. Feverish, the desire to escape, the sound of the crashing waves thundering in her ears, collapsing into a sea of blue and then floating upon foam as white and airy as clouds. Firing victorious shots into the air as a ship was ravaged, pillaged. The blood drained from a face hard and cold as steel, melting into the seas, gnarled by the coral and run through with a poison-tipped blade...To the gallows! To the gallows! Hands clasped and bound, wiry rope about the neck, hanging by a hair's breadth, until a cunning sleight of a hand, the clandestine and merciful thrust of a sword—freedom, blithe and inconsequential. Or was it? Hard won yet so easily lost, lips at once full and sated by lustful kisses, lips at once cracked and parched by the lack thereof. What was society but marriage and money and impenetrable circles of status, the gentry paying no heed to the working class...what was society but a façade of perfection, formal and dispassionate, of set standards and regulations with stifling finery and polite conversation, with embarrassment caused at the slightest brush of a hand, with shock caused at catching a man and a single woman unaccompanied...where there was no...

A touch of a hand, soft, cradling.

Elizabeth fluttered her lashes against the darkness and the visions cleared as swift as a broom sweeping away cobwebs from the corner of the pantry. The air was cool and still. She gazed upon a hazy image and her name was uttered by a voice, so close.

"Elizabeth?"

She shook her head, a dull ache, and forced her eyes into focus, startling with sudden clarity as she discerned her husband gazing down upon her, his eyes unfathomable pools of shining obsidian, fraught with worry.

She leaned forward, attempting to sit up, and felt his hand tighten around her back as she pressed a hand to his chest. "What are you doing out of bed? You're ill," she murmured in a feeble attempt at speech.

"Elizabeth, you fell," he explained, brushing his fingertips against her forehead. "I hadn't you realized you'd left." He leant close to her, studying her eyes.. "You worried me terribly; I don't want you anywhere near that man."

Elizabeth touched his face, and with a soft smile, she wondered who was taking care of whom. "I took care of it, darling," she said, the memory of the meeting seeming such a long time past, so distant, as she remained so close to him, her husband, and was relieved and reassured by his steadfast presence.

"He came to speak with you, the bastard," Will stated with vehemence, darkness overcoming his countenance. "Men like him, utter prigs, sicken me to the core. If only I had the power and means to imprison him, to let him rot in a cell and then be thrown out to the dogs like the cur he is."

Elizabeth's eyes widened. Will noted the surprise in her gaze, though his odious expression did not falter. He groaned as he rose to his feet, maintaining his grasp about her waist. She leaned against him, and both stood panting for a moment in the archway between the washroom and the bedroom.

"Will, you're not strong enough, you have a fever," Elizabeth murmured, pushing away from him, but he held her fast whilst shuffling into the bedroom, his head beginning to ache in fierce retaliation, though he was so close to the bed, only to lie down and receive instant relief...

"Elizabeth, William, what is the meaning of this?" the Governor at once appeared in the doorway, glancing between the couple with worry, distress, and embarrassment, flustered, as he murmured to an unknown gentleman at his side, "In here, Doctor." The gentleman followed him into the room, and he stood before them. "They have both taken quite ill, though my daughter seems to think herself quite able to care for herself, despite evidence to the contrary," the Governor continued, his expression both accusing and concerned.

"Father, please," Elizabeth murmured, shifting out of Will's grasp, which had grown slack, and with a groan, he stumbled backward.

"Easy now, young man," the Doctor said, catching Will and guiding him towards the bed while the Governor hurried to Elizabeth's side, setting her down into a chair and studying her face anxiously.

"What is the matter, dear?" he whispered, his back turned to the Doctor who had lain Will down and had commenced an examination. "What was that meeting with the Admiral all about? I was rather put off by him myself."

Elizabeth averted her eyes, her face grown quite pale once more. "I'd rather not speak of it now."

The Governor regarded her with wary distinction, attempting to understand the sudden madness about the household. "But…"

"Mr. Turner is afflicted by a stress-induced fever, Governor," the Doctor called, bringing the Governor's attention away from Elizabeth for a moment.

"Indeed?" he replied, eying the boy, who lay quite still with his eyes closed. "Is he quite ill? How is the recovery?" he asked.

The Doctor tucked a stethoscope into his coat pocket. "He should be watched and cared for vigilantly until the fever breaks. Cold compresses should be applied hourly." He sighed, turning to brush his hand against Will's forehead. "As long as the fever persists, it is a waiting game, but once it does break, I should say the coast is clear."

The Governor rose and shook his hand. "Thank you, I shall see to it that he receives the proper care."

The Doctor gave a brief nod. "I shall see to your daughter, sir."

"No, I'm fine really. I merely grew queasy this morning after disregarding breakfast," Elizabeth insisted.

The Doctor regarded her with sympathy. "Still, Mrs. Turner, I would be failing in my duty if I departed knowing that I had disregarded a patient with potentially more than a sharp reaction to appetite."

Elizabeth grew silent as the Doctor gave a customary examination without incident, nonetheless prescribing rest and warning against venturing outdoors in the impending rains, as it would only serve to exasperate the conditions of the Mr. and the Mrs.

"Thank you for your time, Doctor. If you'll only go down the stairs, my butler will show you out."

"No trouble at all, Governor, farewell."

The Governor turned to Elizabeth once the Doctor took his leave. "Come Elizabeth, I insist you return to your room to rest and leave Will to recover."

Elizabeth shrugged her arm out her father's grasp. "No Father, I must stay with him. I must not leave his side, I have to care for him," she murmured, and came to stand by the side of the bed, touching her hand to Will's shoulder.

"Elizabeth, do not argue," the Governor persisted, irritation creeping into his tone. "You are clearly in need of rest, not to mention that this…" he waved a hand. "…situation is highly improper."

Elizabeth turned on him, her hand pressing against her chest. "We are _married_, Father, a fact which you so frequently seem to forget. What impropriety is there in a wife standing by her husband?" she exclaimed, her voice soft yet furious.

The Governor opened his mouth, but words evaded him. He looked at Elizabeth for a long moment before turning about and striding towards the door, pausing halfway to utter, "You are married, yes, but I expect you to adhere to certain measures of decency while you remain under this roof. You should be cared for in separate rooms by a private nurse, not this…sordid business of caring for one another. It is indecent. Where are your boundaries, child?" he exclaimed, patronizing.

Elizabeth felt loss and shock grip her heart, and she turned hard, saddened eyes upon her father, a man with such hard-ingrained decorum. "There are no boundaries between me and my husband," she said, her hand tracing down Will's arm to press his hand, feeling the gauze dressing about his knuckles.

The Governor straightened in indignation. "Then you choose to draw a boundary between yourself and society?"

Elizabeth did not answer, but her eyes told the Governor all he needed to know, and he walked away, closing the door behind him. Elizabeth stared at the door for a moment, a mixture of hurt and resentment rushing through her, and she felt a familiar wave of sickness come over her. She resisted it, sagging onto the floor and closing her eyes as she expelled slow breaths. So this was the battle against propriety. Stepping away from the crystalline world of English society meant stepping away from her father, from his immutable views. Was it really worth it? She opened her eyes and they shone with determination. Yes, it was worth every drop of blood in her veins, for the pain of losing Will overpowered every earthen pain in the world; she could bear estrangement from her father, she reasoned, yet losing Will…no, losing Will would not be for a short spell, but it would be forever. For a morbid moment, she imagined him dressed in brocade, wielding a bayonet, his eyes cold and hard as steel, as he headed a brigade against piracy, against Captain Jack Sparrow, Barbossa, Anamaria, Mr. Gibbs, their friends and acquaintances. And she was chained to the arm of Greys, the father and son on her either side, smiling with wicked triumph, and the Governor surveyed the scene with pleasure, because his wishes had come true: William Turner had joined the navy, Elizabeth Swann had married into the upper-class circle, and her blood was pure and untainted, free from the soil of the lower-class. And no one cared. No one cared that lovers had been torn apart by the malicious will of propriety.

"No," Elizabeth whimpered, clenching her hands, her eyes burning in defiance of the world. She refused to be a marionette, refused to forsake her only happiness, for to do so would be suicide. Yes, she would rather kill herself and Will than succumb to such sordid business. She rose onto her knees, gazing at Will as he slept, and she frowned, filled with a sudden, terrible foreboding sadness. She laid her head against his abdomen, and whispered, "I love you. I love you, Will." Tears leaked from her eyes as she wrapped her arms about him and vowed to protect him; she cared naught for herself, she was not frightened by the Admiral's threats, she only prayed for Will's recovery, she only desired to see him well, his eyes shining in love and mischief when he would take her into his arms and kiss her, as he had that day on the ramparts, the day he had professed his love for her….if only that day was never-ending, if only such bliss went forever uninterrupted.

Bliss is ephemeral, only lasting for a moment before vanishing through slack fingertips.

Elizabeth placed cold bath cloths onto Will's forehead, checking his pulse, sighing as the hours passed, and failed to notice when a tray of food and drink was brought to the room. Her father, the servants, had enough sense to leave her be in her vigil. She had no appetite, but brought water to her husband's lips at intervals, waiting, waiting and watching for his eyes to open and everything to be right in the world once he looked into her eyes and smiled.

* * *

Night fell as swift and sure as the sun had risen. Marianna walked up the stairs towards the guestroom once more. Ms. Swann had not departed the room the whole day through. The Governor had been aware of his daughter's position, to Marianna's surprise. He was quite cross, yet took no action, blaming the girl's strange impudence to a strain of illness which would disappear when she had quite recovered. Marianna only listened with a subtle shake of the head. She approached the door with clean, warm towels in her arms, and as she raised her had to knock, she was surprised to hear hurried whispers of conversation.

"Ms. Swann, Mr. Turner?" she said, entering. The whispers ceased in an instant. She startled in surprise at the sight before her—Mr. Turner sitting up, his wife next to him with her legs folded beneath her, grasping one another's hands.

"Are you feeling better, Mr. Turner?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you Marianna," he answered, though his eyes did not leave his wife's face; he seemed unwilling to drop his gaze, for his eyes to leave hers. Marianna felt a bit intrusive. She looked down, noting the tray she had brought in some hours before. The tea and water had been consumed, though the food had remained untouched.

"Ms. Elizabeth…Mrs. Turner, you have not had a bite of food. Shall I bring you something else?"

"No, Marianna," the woman answered, and her eyes too did not leave those of her husband.

Marianna glanced at the couple. Elizabeth was stroking Will's hands, continuing to gaze at him, a smile on her face. "Well…" she stammered. "Where shall I put the towels, Miss?"

"Leave them at the sink and then tidy the washroom, if you please," Elizabeth said, though it came as more of a suggestion than an order, and Marianna wondered if she should just drop the towels and depart.

"Go along then, and never mind about the food," Elizabeth added, and Marianna hurried to the washroom, draining off the old bath water and cleaning as quick as possible. In the time she spent, the couple did not speak to one another. What were their secrets, Marianna wondered, and then was ashamed at wishing to know something she should have manners enough to disregard.

She quit the room with the tray in hand, reckoning she would bring pears up in a few hours despite her mistress's dismissive attitude.

* * *

Elizabeth grazed her hand over Will's forehead, relieved that the fever had certainly abated. With a tender smile, Will grasped her hand, pressing his lips to it. His eyes gleamed, he smiled. Elizabeth's heart felt full; her husband was returning to her. Moonlight streamed through the room and the hours of night reached a peak. Moonbeams fell directly onto Elizabeth, and her skin, her eyes, gleamed in the soft silvery-blue light; she was a beautiful spectre. Will lifted from his back, bringing his hand around her neck, and meeting her lips in a kiss. She sighed, smiling, and drew away.

"It's late, darling, you should sleep. You're still recovering," she said, her fingertips brushing his cheeks.

"I do not wish to sleep," Will muttered in a soft, low voice, his hand traveling from her jaw, brushing her breasts, resting against her hip. "Not when I could spend the time looking at you, memorizing every facet of you, my love."

She shuddered as his hand caressed her waist and he kissed her collarbone, his lips lingering against her skin, and he nuzzled into her neck, whispering, "I love you."

"Will…" She nestled into the warmth of his body and he wrapped his arms about her, remaining in a quiet embrace, before he murmured against her hair.

"I do not know what shall happen, what shall be done. But I will not let the likes of Admiral Greys come between us and our happiness."

Elizabeth gave a deep sigh, filled with unparalleled hatred at the mention of the man's name. "I will conjure a plan to get us out of this mess, Will. You shall not do anything rash to impede your recovery—promise me that." She looked into his eyes, demanding his word.

"Oh, my Elizabeth," he murmured. "I once vowed that I would die for you, that I would do anything for you, even if it meant forfeiting my life."

She pressed a finger to his lips, and gave him a small smile. "You have. Now it is my turn."

He looked to protest, but was silenced as she kissed him with tenderness, quelling the passion which ignited within her as she urged him to rest, and drawing the sheets, she lay beside him as he drifted off into slumber. She felt comfort radiate through her as she watched him so peaceful, his breaths soft and even. She understood what he meant when he had said that he wished to look at her, to memorize her features, for as she looked at Will, she was filled with desperate contentment. She studied the creases of his brow, the structure of his facial bones, the shape of his lips, the shadow of a beard on his jaw, the hint of a goatee on his chin. She absorbed him, she loved him, was electrified by him, without touching him. When the clock struck the midnight hour, she was surprised at the rapid passage of the time. She yet felt restless, unable to sleep. She planted a soft kiss against his lips before folding the covers back and slipping out of bed, happy that he had not awoken. For several minutes, she paced the room, the meeting of the morning—of the day previous, really—going through her mind. There had to be a way to get to the Admiral, there had to be a loophole, an escape, a way to see the man tortured and punished, out of their lives. She experienced a strange feeling of bloodlust; her passions were heightened. She desired more than anything to protect Will, her beloved, her life. She desired to cause the Admiral pain, to hurt him with more than mere words. She wrung her hands, her restlessness increasing with the passing moments, and she felt desire well within her.

She halted her pacing footsteps, looking at her husband, sound asleep. She licked her lips subtly. Were he awake, were he well, were the world not standing on its end…she imagined kissing him, the feel of his hands, the brush of his body against hers, his promise to make it up to her…Not even two days prior, not even eight-and-forty hours past, and they had been blissful, their lives as a married couple only beginning. Yet now….now it was coming to an end.

Anger flashed in Elizabeth's eyes and she found Will's overcoat draped over the changing screen. Slipping it over her gown, she exited the room, tiptoeing down the stairs, and onm a whim, decided to leave by way of the doors leading to the garden. The night was dark; the air was cool and brisk. She fastened the buttons of the coat against the chill and glided through the garden without effort, having known its pathways since she was a child. She flicked the latch of the gate and found herself beyond the grounds of the mansion. She looked about her and felt a sense of freedom. Unconsciously, her feet carried her to the beach, and she did not stop until she felt the sand beneath her feet. With a cry, she raced across the sand, running as fast as her legs would allow, the spray of the sea cold and wet against her face, the tide rising and skimming her feet. The wind seemed to carry her, and her heavy breaths, her heartbeats, matched the rolling of the waves against the shore. She ran hard, thoughts vanished from her mind, oblivious as to her destination, to her surroundings. She tore across the sand, endeavouring to run the expanse of the earth if necessary, when she was impeded by a pressure against her waist.

"Excuse me, missy…"

She yelped, pushed away from the figure, angered that she had not thought to carry a sword on her, and she elbowed and kicked, but the figure held her fast.

"Ms. Swann, aren't you a tigress? Easy now, love. Easy Lizzie, s'just ol' Captain Jack."

Elizabeth abruptly stopped fighting and looked into the eyes of her captor, and her jaw fell open in shock. "Bloody hell, Jack, what're you doing here?" she exclaimed.

"Shh," he muttered, glaring at her, and pushed her behind a stone pillar.

He looked her up and down, curiosity in his dark eyes. "I could ask you the same question."

Elizabeth stood panting, her hands on her hips, her eyes fierce and glittering like diamonds, shaking her head in wonderment. "You must know that the entire navy is after your head," she hissed.

To her surprise, he smiled. "Indeed." He tottered forward, pointing towards the sea. "They think I'm in Tortuga; I slipped out right under their noses." He looked pleased with himself.

Elizabeth scoffed. "I would be glad for you really, if your escape from them in the first place hadn't put our lives at risk."

Jack lifted his eyebrows in interest, pointing at her. "By _our _lives, do ye mean…"

"Will and I have been charged with treason for helping you escape the hangman's noose," she whispered in anger.

"And that's my fault? I think not, it was your decision, wasn't it? It was William's decision to stand by me, the brave lad," he remarked. "Where is the whelp anyhow?"

Elizabeth lowered her eyes. "He is ill."

Jack placed a light hand on her shoulder. " 'Mmm sorry, Lizzie. Wish I could help, but seeing as I'm on the run…"

Elizabeth looked at him with renewed interest and remarked, "Perhaps you can."

Jack grinned in devilish expectation.


	7. Tactics: Part I

Progressing Against Propriety

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of this genre.

The moonlight shone upon the earth; all was quiet save for the pounding of the waves upon the shore. Elizabeth paced, swallowing as she attempted to regain the subdued rhythm of her breath, and regarded the pirate before her, choosing her words with precision.

"You owe us, Jack. You owe us for aiding in your escape," she spoke, eying him.

"Aye…"

"And so you shall expect nothing in return for helping us out of this situation," she stated, quite cognizant of his powers of manipulation. Then again, she mused, such powers could come into use.

"Me? Expect something in return? What do ye take me for, woman?" he muttered, irritated, though his eyes gleamed with mischief.

"A pirate," Elizabeth stated, her tone bland, though could not resist a subtle smile, a twitch at the corner of her lips which vanished as her brows furrowed. "We must meet to speak privately, the three of us."

Jack clapped his hands together. "And how do you propose we accomplish that, Ms. Swann? Guards lurking around every corner, the ramparts and docks fortified—why I had to sink me own boat and swim ashore to avoid being noticed…"

"You haven't the _Pearl?"_ Elizabeth interrupted.

"It seems…to be out of my grasp at the moment," he murmured, twisting his goatee with his ring-adorned fingers. "But!" His eyes widened, studying her. "The point is, there are no longer safe havens about this town, especially not where piracy is concerned."

Elizabeth pursed her lips. "If you are so worried, then why did you come back at all?"

He smiled broadly and felt in his pocket for a moment, extracting an object which swung and glinted in the darkness before her eyes. Placing it in his palm, he pressed his finger on a latch, and stepping into a ring of moonlight, revealed his compass, the pointer fluttering to and fro.

Elizabeth stared, a persistent irritation itching through her, and she ground her teeth, desiring to rip the meaningless object from his hand and toss it into the sea.

"What…" she hissed, "Is this?"

"Oh, Lizzie, have I not before shown you my compass? Shown you its capabilities?" he asked in casual mindlessness of the anxiety which emanated from her waves.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, running her fingers against her forehead in exasperation. "It shows you the Isle de Muerta, Jack. Now would you stop beating around the bush and get on with it!" Her voice rose an octave, echoing in the cold air.

"Patience, patience, Ms. Swann, and mind your temper. You shall be rewarded in due course," he said, beginning to circle her, his hand extended with the compass laid within it.

Elizabeth looked up at him, the irritation within her failing to ebb, aggravated by his careless manner, by his ambiguity, by his alternating reference to her as 'Ms. Swann', 'Lizzie', his relentless forestalling of the matter at hand. Elizabeth clenched her hands. She began to regret allowing Jack in to partake of their pain, to reap the subsequent benefits, to toy with and elude her. All she wanted, all she really wanted….

"Damn you, Jack. I only want to save Will from an unwarranted fate," she cried, glaring at the man, circling, circling, his eyes dancing, calculating, that damnable compass…

"Ah!" he suddenly murmured, catching her by surprise as he stopped moving. "Exactly the words I had been waiting to hear, dearie." A look of delight splashed across his face, and he thrust the compass into her hands.

Elizabeth looked to speak, yet he interrupted her. "My compass do not merely point the way to the famed Isle de Muerta."

She frowned, eying him. "Then where does it point?"

He smiled, his eyes glittering in magnificent excitement.. "To what you want most in this world, to your heart's desire."

She felt his breath upon her face and stepped back, looking at him with skepticism and incredulity.

"What do you want most, Elizabeth Swann?" he asked after a moment.

"To save Will," she answered without hesitation.

His eyes widened, and he circled around her once more. "With the aid of the _Black Pearl._"

"What?" she muttered, and her head ached from his constant back and forth movement.

"The _Pearl _is the fastest ship in Caribbean; she can outrun any military ship in this harbour."

Elizabeth shook her head, her brows furrowed. "So you plan to escape by ship, outrun the navy by sea, and once we reach land, what? Hope they don't become aware of our destination?"

Jack shrugged. "If that's what saves Will…"

"Does it?" she asked, heated.

Jack sighed, placing his fingers against her palm, where the compass lay still. "Where does it point, Lizzie?"

With reluctance, she gazed down, and the pointer swiveled in a westward direction, towards the town, venturing upward. She swallowed, knowing exactly. The guestroom of the mansion.

"Well?" Jack pressed, interrupting the brief silence.

"Will," she said, and then looked up at Jack, studying his face, wondering if she could trust him. He was a pirate for heaven's sake, but with a jolt she realized that she too was such a person; her primary desire since childhood had been freedom, careless abandon upon the seas, escaping the pressing duties of the world, independent. But independence had taken on a new meaning since the adventure to the Isle de Muerta and back. So much had changed since then. Independence meant William Turner, living and breathing William Turner. With a flicker of revelation, she remembered that she had never wanted to go it alone. William had always been at her side in those fantasies, pirates together, reliant upon and trusting of one another.

"You're not concentrating hard enough, Lizzie." Jack's gruff voice interrupted her thoughts. "You wish to save Will, ergo you wish to obtain the _Pearl_, thus the compass points to what you want most, points to that which obtains us the _Pearl_, savvy?"

He paused for a moment, allowing her to register his words.

"The Governor's mansion," she answered.

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere," Jack replied, coming to sit upon the ground with legs crossed. Elizabeth joined him, relieved that he had ceased his incessant pacing, and leant against the stone pillar with a tired sigh.

"And who is in the mansion?"

"I don't have time for these absurd questions, Jack," she groaned, tilting her head back.

"Just humour me," he insisted, and she huffed, closing her eyes and tossing her hands.

"Fine. There's my father, the maids the butler, _Will…_"

Jack snapped his fingers. "No, no, no, I need something more than that, come on."

Elizabeth grunted, her eyes still closed, attempting to ease the headache caused by his voice, incessant, his nonsense, always flippant, never serious, life and death was a game to him, it amused him. "I don't know what to tell you, Jack. Diurnal living and occupancy in the mansion isn't all as exciting as you presume," she muttered, her voice coated in satire. Her eyes snapped open. Jack was stroking his chin, his expression giving the impression of deep thought.

"No, no…" he mumbled, and snapped his fingers again. "Any recent visitors? A lingering presence, perhaps?"

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. The only visitor had been…she felt a twinge of unpleasantness in her gut and she balked, feeling poison upon her tongue.

"I am right," Jack said, pleasure and surprise in his tone, and leaned forward, touching Elizabeth's arm. "Quite all right, then. Who was it?"

Elizabeth looked up, feeling hazy and drained. "Admiral Greys." As she spoke the name, the vivid image of him, of his steel face and blue eyes, his sardonic laugh, crooked mouth, appeared to her, and she groaned, falling back against the pillar.

"Oi! Don't take it too hard, then," Jack murmured, catching her with his arm around her back and his hand behind her head. "Revelations of the heart are known to do that."

Elizabeth looked at him, pushing away and struggling to get to her feet. Jack surveyed her with wary interest, keeping his hand upon her arm yet.

"We must speak with Will," she said.

"Aye, if our plan is to come to fruition, I—with your assistance, of course—must enter the mansion and have access to dear ol' Admiral what's-his-face."

Elizabeth felt ill again at the thought of the Admiral stepping foot across the threshold, reliving that morning—he grasped her wrist and pulled her close, his breath hot on her neck, and she did not have a sword to defend herself, and merely stood weak and vulnerable and silver chains darted from his cold fingertips and ensnared around her wrists.

"Come now, Lizzie. You want me to help you, don't you? You want to save your dearly beloved William?" he persuaded, leading her forward.

She blinked, her head clearing, and she nodded, thinking of her husband, alone in the guestroom; he would go mad if he were to find her gone.

"I must get back to him," she whispered under her breath, and then turned back to Jack, wondering what to do with him. "Hide in the garden once we reach the mansion," she instructed. "I'll throw you a line, and you'll have to climb up to the balcony and enter that way."

Jack looked at her with utmost skepticism, as if he couldn't fathom her 'throwing him a line' as it were. He chuckled.

She glared at him. "I've done this many a-time before, I'll have you know."

"Have you?" he laughed outright. "And how did it work for you? I'm sure it was quite a sight?"

"Just shut it and leave this to me. You can't come through the doors; someone is sure to spot you."

Jack raised his brows. "And I'll be free from prying eyes?"

"I'll see to it that your presence in unknown," she answered, her eyes steady and firm upon his.

"So we have an accord, then?" said Jack, thrusting out his hand.

Elizabeth was silent for a moment; her mind was on Will. "Agreed," she said, as her fingers brushed his, and she added, "To save Will."

"To get the _Black Pearl._"

Something in his eyes as he said those words gave her misgivings, made her wonder…she brushed off the feeling as they stole down the barren streets of Port Royal, the birth of the morning quiet and lifeless and damp. Without a word, with mere fleeting glances, Jack snuck into the recesses of the garden after Elizabeth. She lifted the gate latch and slipped inside through the wide glass doors, relieved to find the mansion in the same state of silent darkness as when she had absconded. Her limbs felt heavy, and as she entered the guestroom, desire to collapse upon the bed's mattress overwhelmed her, and she nigh gave into the sensation when she remembered Jack. Passing by with a low sigh of relief as she noted Will's undisturbed form, she gathered sheets in the closet, and twisting them together into a long rope, she extended them over the balcony. The end swung against the grass.

"Sparrow!" she muttered, and he thus appeared, giving her an unreadable look as he grasped the makeshift rope and began to haul himself upward, using the crevices of the brick siding as footholds.

"Can you make it over?" Elizabeth asked in a whisper once he reached the balcony, and he rolled his eyes.

Elizabeth took his meaning and left him to go to Will's side. There was a scuffling sound as Jack hauled himself over the railing, and then stood panting, clearing his throat, and straightening his hat. Will stirred, blinking his eyes, and stared at Elizabeth for a moment in confusion.

"Elizabeth? What are you doing up?" he asked, sitting up, concerned by the brightness in her glance, though her eyes were tired.

She leaned down to him. "Will, we have a visitor."

"What?" he leaned forward, throwing off the bed sheets despite Elizabeth's hindering hand upon his chest. "Who is it?" There was hatred in his voice, and Elizabeth was aware of its origin. "No, it's all right," she assured. "It's only…"

"William, my boy!" Jack swaggered into the room, tipping his hat. "Never thought ye'd see the ol' Captain again, eh? Fancy that."

Will stared at him with the same expression of accusatory wariness as Elizabeth had bestowed. "What are you doing here, Jack Sparrow?" He had risen, walking towards the pirate.

Jack beamed, gesturing towards Elizabeth. "Your wife and I have come to an agreement in view of our certain situation with the royal navy."

Will stared at Jack, unspeaking, and then turned to Elizabeth, who sat on the end of bed. "Is this true?"

She nodded, and said, "He is the only one who can help us, Will."

He lowered his eyes, trusting her judgment, but pressed to Jack, "I shall not go along with your plan without details."

Jack did not answer, but sat himself in a chair against the wall, nodding and appearing self-satisfied.

"Elizabeth, what do you…?" He turned back to her, and removed to her side as he absorbed her appearance, sitting quite slack, her head in her hands."Darling…" he murmured, pressing his lips against her hair, his eyes not leaving her face as he said, "We shall discuss this in the morning, Jack. My wife is exhausted."

Jack smiled. "Very well, then. I'll just make my self comfortable here."

Will looked up, his hand upon Elizabeth's neck, and glowered at Jack, rather disgusted and disinclined at the notion of letting the pirate spend the remainder of night in the room. Privacy was a sacred entity, something Will was unwilling to sacrifice.

"You will stay in the guestroom at the end of the hall. It is never used, always vacant, the servants do not enter there. You will not be disturbed."

Jack rose from the chair, his eyes glittering as if he had a ready remark on the tip of his tongue.

"You got us into this mess, you will follow our rules, _savvy_?" he muttered, derision dripping from his voice.

Jack raised his hands in defeat. "Your terms are steep, William." He cocked his head, something like fascination in his countenance. "I shall take my leave then."

"Do not leave that room under any circumstances," Will warned.

"All right, all right mate," Jack grumbled, stepping out the door. "Get some sleep; I'll be waiting for your knock." He flashed one last smile before meandering down the hall and trying a door at the very end, passing through it. Will heard a click as the door locked. With a sigh, he ran his hand through his hair, closing and locking his own door, and went to Elizabeth, gathering her in his arms; she was so light, so compliant. She murmured. incoherent, as Will lay her against the supple pillows. He put his arms about her, kissing her forehead. She succumbed to the veil of sleep within an instant, and Will watched her, love and concern upon his face.

"All will be well, Elizabeth, I promise," he whispered, and fell into a doze as he breathed in her scent, unaware that the compass of Jack Sparrow lay nestled in the pocket of the overcoat Elizabeth had neglected to remove, the pointer vacillating between Will and Elizabeth, for what either wanted most in the world was each other.


	8. Tactics: Part II

Progressing Against Propriety

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of this genre.

A/N: Unfortunately, this will probably be my last update for a while. Enjoy!

Stealing into the night, black and cold and obscure, clouds charcoal gray and heavy with moisture veiling a silver moon, abstracting all the subtle sparks of pleasant light from the world. Wretched joy and wretched guilt, excitement mingled with fear, fleeting moments of happiness in exchange for lasting lifetimes of misery. Dead and dull in the day, alive and animated in the night. Several hours of bliss after a day's worth of drudgery.

Elizabeth cloaked in dark and shapeless material, worn and weathered yet bristling with excitement as heels were cast off and running barefoot through the streets, breathless, not pausing for a moment until reaching a barred door. Tousling inside as a rumpled muddle, yet stripping the layers, a goddess of ethereal beauty, radiant in happiness. The hard worker, the devoted man, the lover, rushes forth and claims the flickering candle of beauty for his own. The world evanescing into oblivion as naught but love and compassion and correctness exists between them, William Turner and Elizabeth Swann. Forever the blacksmith, forever the Governor's daughter, royalty and a commoner: forbidden, clandestine, disgraceful.

Yet none such things mattered in the stolen moments, in the secret hours, in the darkness replaced by light, brilliant and beautiful. Ravenous kisses, fervid embraces, time too few and too precious for conversation. Fruitless murmurings of love, of broken promises, sympathetic and yearning glances. Before the eve is through, before the sun breaks, long before that, the orb of blissful illusion is shattered and two souls are lost and wandering once more until the next slew of hours is done with and then, and then...an endless circle of longing and disappointment. Kisses and embraces become embittered, words lose their sweetness and become sour, excitement wanes, everything becomes drudgery because endeavours are worthless, nothing changes, there is no progress. Time progresses, time always progresses, still nothing changes. Misery is a given, a dull life is accepted, the lovers do not need one another anymore. Time continues to pass, they fail to think of each other, they have not seen each other for some time. A fleeting hint, a faint memory, like a single fallen teardrop...the agony is too great. They simply...forget. Their existences lost to one another, like a small, inconsequential boat lost upon the sea, like a feather lost upon the wind. Nothing, nothing changes. Fingers reach out before the final memory is lost, clinging to some sort of hope, unending pain of the heart, a final cry of deliverance—

"Will!" Elizabeth screamed, bolting, moisture clinging to her brow and her back, her eyes blinded by celestial brightness, she imagined herself in a strange heaven. She wondered if he was there, that lost memory, that beautiful essence of her being, the only…

"Will." Her voice was a hoarse and subtle whisper, she was losing hope. Tears, needle-sharp pricks of salt on her cheeks. Where was she, what was she doing, why that incessant pressure at her back and arms, why that incessant murmuring…?

"Elizabeth…Elizabeth…Elizabeth." Reverberating urging, loving, familiar.

The mid-morning sunshine streamed through the room, casting a bright sunflower radiance. Early morning tea was cold. Brunch was being prepared. Events were swirling about as time progressed, time never stops, life continues, people awaken and shrug off the nonsensical fantasies of their slumber. Nightmares have no bearing in the land of the wakeful, the eccentricities of the nocturnal mind unworthy and unsuitable to be mentioned. Nightmares lose their reality but the memories cast a foreboding shadow if left to manifest in the mind's recesses.

"Elizabeth," Will Turner spoke in beseeching tones, gathering his wife into his arms, easing her distress with his touch, erasing the cloud of fanciful visions.

She looked up, blinking in the sunshine, breathing deep. She looked into his eyes.

"Will," she whispered. He smiled. He was near her; never could he forget her.

Abruptly, she launched herself into his arms, and as he held her, his arms round her, his hands tracing across her back, the memories faded. She was not married to a member of the Royal Navy, nor a Duke, nor a Lord. She did not suffer a loveless marriage, necessitating stealing off in the middle of the night for a rendezvous with her lover. No, she had not succumbed to propriety. She had overpowered propriety; she was Elizabeth Turner, wife of a nobleman. She lifted herself from his chest, and looked into his eyes, feeling inane.

"Are you all right, my love? 'Twas naught but a nightmare. Think nothing of it."

She smiled, leaning forward to kiss him upon the lips; he surveyed her with relief and surprise in his countenance.

"I know," she murmured. "I apologize. These nightmares sometimes best me." She uttered a noncommittal laugh, crossing her legs and adjusting the sheets about her, startling when he touched her face, gazing upon her with concern.

"I loathe seeing you so distressed by nightmares, Elizabeth." He looked at her with indefinable compassion. She touched his lips with her fingertips; love shone from her eyes like the rays of the sun. "I can fathom what induced it," he continued. "Though you needn't worry; hell shall break out in the world and we shall not be separated."

"Oh, Will," she whispered, kissing him with ardour, pressing close to him, her chest flush against his, weaving her hands through his hair, round his neck and against his shoulders, feeling passion and desire alight within her, earnest love overwhelming prior hazy sentiments of agony and potential sentiments of fear and distress. She gasped as the kiss deepened and he laid her against the pillows. He emitted a gruff utterance as abrupt rapture rippled through him and he yearned to kiss every inch of her, to breathe in her intoxicating scent, to memorize her features. His fingers grazed her skin and she quivered neath his touch. The heavy coat was pushed away and an object in the open pocket, the compass, fell with a soft clatter onto the floor.

"Love me, love me…" A breathless and ardent request as she gazed into his eyes, clinging to him, kissing him. His lips were her sustenance and she was voracious as he murmured her name over and again, and she teetered on the apex of elation, finally overcome as he locked his eyes with hers, full of intensity, of promise, and sent her to the heavens. She cried out and loved him without reserve, strength filling her spirit and her soul, kissing him for extended lengths until her lips were full and pink and spent. Collapsing back, and breathless as he touched her, they lay entwined with one another, perspiration upon their brows.

Will gazed at her, pausing to lick his lips as he caught his breath before smiling at her and murmuring, "I kept my promise," his voice deep and pronounced.

She regarded him with slight confusion.

"I made it up to you."

Her lips curved in a smile and she lowered her lashes as she drew a hand down his sculpted chest. "Yes. Yes, you did."

She felt a deep vibration under her hand as he chuckled, and as she looked up, he captured her lips in brief indulgence. As he looked at her with that expression, seductively cognizant, she felt like a lovesick girl in the thrilling advance of courtship, excited over the prospect of being known by the name of her betrothed.

"Mrs. Turner," he murmured, his finger tracing the curve of her hip. "I believe we are late for brunch, and we must attend to our guest."

She smiled, halting his wayward hand as she placed her own hand upon his wrist, and with a smile, she kissed his jaw. Mrs. Turner. The name thrilled her, empowered her, especially spoken through those lips…

"Oh…" he murmured, his hand finding her hip once more.

"What time is it?" she whispered, her hands going around his neck.

"Half-past eleven, I imagine," he answered, kissing her shoulder.

"Oh my," she giggled. "I suppose we'd better be going."

"And…" He kissed her neck before leaning away from her. "…what is the plan?"

"We shall go to brunch and then attend to our guest."

"Shall we not pay a brief visit, expressing our apologies and proposing a meeting place?"

Elizabeth rose upon her elbows. "What have we to apologize for? Surely you don't regret…"

He kissed her soundly, giving her a disarming smile. "Not in the least, my love. But just imagine his impatience. He must be fluttering around that room like a caged bird."

She chuckled. "Let the sparrow-bird wait. We shall give him his freedom, but not too soon. Why…" She turned over to lie on her stomach, fiddling with the edge of the sheet draped across his waist. "…if not for you, I would not have the strength to confront the world today."

"Oh, my darling," he murmured, the passion in his eyes overshadowed by tender compassion.

She smiled, looking at him for a moment before rising with a luxuriant stretch, and then looked about the floor and surrounding area.

"Lost something, love?" Will smirked as he pulled on his slacks.

"I seem to have….misplaced my robe," she muttered, and looked at him with an arched eyebrow. "Will, would you run to my room and fetch me a suitable dress from my closet?"

He eyed her with lascivious intent, to which she skirted behind the changing screen. He laughed. "We have already broken many boundaries this morning, to my reckoning, and as husband and wife, your room is mine, is it not? So, any particular style or colour?"

Elizabeth furrowed her brows, half in irritation, half in amusement, most of all in happiness; she had been concerned that he would have qualms about sifting through her things in her room. He laughed once more and left a bemused Elizabeth. After scanning her wardrobe, he settled upon a lavender gown with cream trimming, and snatched a bottle of fragrance from her dresser before exiting the room. Closing her door, he glanced down the hall. The door of the primarily unused guestroom was closed. Pleased and curious, he approached and knocked, three sharp and quick knocks. The door cracked open.

"The ramparts at three o'clock is where you may spread your wings and fly," he muttered, and closed the door, waiting for a moment to hear the click of the lock, and returned to his wife, handing her the gown and fragrance over the changing screen and giving her privacy as she readied herself.

"Thank you, darling. I rather like this. Rose and citrus?"

Will cleared his throat. "I wished to smell it on you."

He heard her huff. "It was never a favourite scent of mine, but…."

She walked out from behind the screen, and he smiled at her beauty, coming towards her. She gasped as he leant down to press his lips against her chest, just above her breasts, and inhaled deeply, his tongue grazing her skin.

"The scent is intoxicating against your skin, ravishing, as I imagined it would be." He kissed her on the lips and the sweetness of the fragrance lingered upon his tongue and she then agreed with him, the scent exhilarating upon his lips, and she desired to kiss him further, but he broke away.

"Shall we go down then?"

Elizabeth stared at him, licking her lips, and murmured, "All right."

They exited the room together, and as they descended the stairs, Elizabeth took his arm, leaning to whisper in his ear, "You are infuriating, Mr. Turner."

"Would you have me if I was not?" he answered, a lilt to his voice. Her grip upon his arm tightened and he smiled, though did not look at her.

"Ah, Elizabeth and William!" the Governor greeted, appearing quite amiable as he met the couple once they reached the foyer. He looked at them and remarked, "You are both looking exceedingly better. Fever passed without incident, did it, Will?"

"Yes indeed sir, thank goodness," he responded. "Your daughter took wondrous good care of me." He glanced at her and she smiled.

"Hmm, yes," the Governor conceded, though appeared as if he still had misgivings about the sordid business of a married couple caring for one another in sickness. There were nurses for that, for propriety's sake! He yet dropped the subject, quite relieved that his daughter appeared in much better spirits. "Elizabeth, dear, I am so pleased that you are better as well."

"Oh yes, much. It was the rain, I imagine. To see the sunshine now is lovely."

Will looked at her with a laden expression, gathering the meaning behind her words. She lowered her hand from his arm and he entwined his fingers with hers, feeling the familiar gold metal of her wedding ring.

The Governor cleared his throat. "Yes. Shall we go into the garden for brunch, then?"

As they followed him out the glass doors, they were halted by an exclamation of surprise.

"Oh, Ms. Swann! Thank heavens you're…"

"Marianna, please address me by my wedded name—Mrs. Turner," Elizabeth interrupted, fixing upon the maid a steady gaze.

Marianna looked at the woman, her mistress, in surprise. "Well, of course. Certainly. I do apologize, Ms…Madame…" she mumbled, backing out of the room and disappearing into the kitchen.

"You are very beautiful just now," Will remarked as he looked at her objectively, standing strong, the sunlight from the garden casting a soft glow over her.

She smiled at him, tilting her head. "Thank you."

They strolled out onto the porch, standing under the shade of an umbrella.

"It is very flattering to my character, you know. I could quite get used to hearing you be addressed as 'Mrs. Turner'."

She grinned, an impish dimple creasing her cheek. "I could quite get used to it as well."

* * *

Brunch passed by in pleasant repose for the Turners, though Captain Jack Sparrow paced the room in impatience until the clock struck three, indeed feeling akin to a caged bird. As the time arrived, he burst from the window, leaping with grace onto a patch of vegetation below, and sprinted towards the ramparts, keeping to the shadows, gliding as smooth and slick as a cat in the dark.

* * *

The clock struck three and the Turners rose from the table simultaneously.

"Father, Will and I wish to go on an outing," Elizabeth announced, taking her husband's hand.

"Indeed? Wherever to? Should you not have someone accompany you?" the Governor replied, brushing crumbs from his fingers onto a napkin.

Elizabeth failed to suppress a sigh, intending to speak, but Will overcame her.

"Governor Swann, I shall ensure that no harm comes to your daughter, my wife," he murmured, the reminder subtle, just enough.

"Oh, yes of course, William. Surely…"

Will nodded, calling after his shoulder, "We shall return before nightfall; a carriage is not needed."

Without another word, he led Elizabeth through the front door and they started through the town, keeping somewhat obscured, though not to the point of blatant evasion.

"Well," Elizabeth murmured once they were well away from the mansion. "That was quite perfect. Your words bring me back to our courting days."

Will looked down at her, smiling. "I shall always show respect to your Father, despite his unloosening ties to decorum."

She sighed. "You are too good; no wonder he allowed me to marry you."

"Is that an insult or a compliment?"

She grinned at him, bringing her lips close enough to nip at his ear. "You shall have to find out yourself."

"Elizabeth…" he murmured, grasping her wrist, desiring her lips.

"Ahem! Would you two stow it? Your love displays sicken me, truly."

They looked up in shock, not having realized that they had reached the ramparts, and now stood overlooking the sapphire-blue waters, Captain Jack Sparrow prompt and standing before them. They blushed.

Jack glared, and mumbled, "Now, while you were doing…" he waved his hand. "…_whatever_ in that room of yours, I was conjuring a plan to get this Admiral out of our hair nice an' easy like."

"And?" Elizabeth prodded.

Jack smiled, the gold on his teeth glinting in the afternoon sunlight. "Go after his Achilles' heel."

When they stood blank, Jack rolled his eyes, and whispered, "His son! Capture, ransom, heighten the bargain." He paused, circling them with intrigue gleaming in his eyes. "When our demands are met, so will his be…or so we say."

"And how do you know what his demands shall be?" Will interjected.

He shrugged. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow—I always know."

Will frowned.

"Trust me, William. I may not know how to fight, but I know how to negotiate. With his son held captive, we hold the dice, we have something to bargain with. We demand your freedom in return for his."

"You don't really think it's as simple as that, do you?" Elizabeth questioned.

He cocked his head. "Anything is simple, if only you have the proper leverage, the proper words to twist the plan of the enemy to accommodate your own plan."

He began to walk about, his hands moving through the air as he spoke, his boots scuffing the dusty ground. "Lie, cheat? No. Only…place suggestions in their heads, manipulate their minds to get what you want." He looked back at them. "Savvy?"

Will took Elizabeth's arm in a subconscious motion. "What exactly are you planning to say, Sparrow?"

"Well, that's not important, is it? What is important is that you get your freedom and I get the _Pearl_." He tapped his forehead with a finger and looked at Elizabeth. "Remember what you want most."

Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted her.

"Now, I really must be going; I am not inclined to spending the night in that dreadful, quiet room, thank you…"

"Sparrow!" Will called after him. "How do you propose ensnaring the Achilles' heel?"

Jack smiled at his jargon. "Don't ask me mate, I just thought up the plan." He then waltzed off the edge of the ramparts and dove into the waters below.

"Sparrow!" Will hissed in annoyance as he watched the pirate swim in an eastern direction. "Damn him," Will grunted, clenching his hands. "He'll not be able to keep that up for long."

Elizabeth gazed at him in seriousness. "How can we do this? Capture the Lieutenant? It's lunacy."

Will placed his hand over hers. "There must be a way. This is our only chance."

Elizabeth nodded and they turned to walk back through the town, silent, until Elizabeth muttered, "The compass. I have Jack's compass."

Will gaze her a quizzical look.

"The compass shows you what you want most," she explained. "It will point us in the right direction; show us a means of capturing the Lieutenant."

Will smiled, raising his eyebrows. "Perhaps Jack does know what he is doing."

With a sudden stirring of hope, Elizabeth kissed him.


	9. Tactics: Part III

Progressing Against Propriety

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of this genre.

* * *

The sea lapped the pale golden shores; the setting sun cast scintillating rays of violent vermillion through the rustling palms. The earth quivered. The bell tower tolled, reverberating through the town, across the square. Three chimes, a pause. Three chimes, followed by three chimes. Lovers hastened beyond the beach, along the cobblestone streets, scattering pebbles in their wake while a solitary figure skirted the shores, blending into foliage. Three pairs of eyes meeting in a brief glance. Three beings joined together by a common desire—freedom. The bell tower tolled, three chimes. Three beings joined together, united against a common enemy—military men, a King. Three against three. Three days. The earth quivered.

A solitary figure left standing amidst the palms as the lovers evanesced. A single, dying chime. Once, once. One more. One against one, the depraved aristocrat against the noble commoner. Playing a skewed game of life and death. Power relationships, leverage, ransom, revenge, time. One day. One day to turn the world.

"We have but one day. What can be accomplished in so short a time?"

"Depends on the one day."

Elizabeth's amber eyes met his own. He took her hand, led her through the garden swathed by towering rose and foxglove. Breathless, gaze dark and laden. Slipping without sound through the wide glass doors to steal into the unused study of the mansion, small and crowded. A large mahogany desk, a standing lamp, a black divan—old yet never handled, dusty yet spotless to the touch.

The door was latched, the sheer curtains drawn across the glass, fluttering, leaving the room dim and warm with muted sunlight escaping in slits upon the door leading to the main foyer.

A breath escaped her. His back was turned, his fingers upon the door handle, testing.

"Will, what do you…"

A scarce inhale and he drew to her side, a warm and subtle breath at her ear. She shivered, a sudden chill whistling through her despite the warmth which coursed through her veins, despite the fire which emanated from his eyes as smouldering pools of obsidian.

"Elizabeth," he murmured, stroking her cheek with a featherlike touch. "What do you desire?"

She stepped back, studying his countenance—earnest, striking, curious, desperate. She felt his roughened fingertips graze her arm and swallowed. Her heart seemed to pulse in frantic beats, escaping her chest, audible and leaving her breathless and lightheaded. _What do you desire_, he had whispered. She drew her tongue across her lips and tasted sea salt and wind and rose-tinted citrus, and then...

His eyes were locked with hers. She attempted to slip from his grasp, yet as his fingers brushed her wrist, she stood still. "You _know_," she managed, though the words came as a mere whisper.

As he stepped towards her, his breath fanning her face, her heart hitched, and she pulled him closer on impulse, her hand grasping his lapel. Her brows furrowed, her eyes shot with rivulets of gold. Her breaths were rapid, distraught. "You…"

"Yes, I know exactly." A low groan in his throat as he pressed his fervid lips to hers, enveloping her as she shuddered in his arms. Her hands cold, trembling as she touched him.

"Elizabeth," he gasped, breaking from the kiss as she tore the upper part of his shirt, a jagged tear in the fabric revealing his chest.

She moaned, the ache apparent in her voice, and pressing her hands against the exposed skin, she backed him into the door as she kissed him, her lips conveying a sense of urgency. "Please, please," she whimpered, nestling close. Her fingers trailed down his chest, her eyes large and distressed.

He raised her chin with his hand. "Elizabeth."

Tears gathered in those beautiful eyes. "You asked me…" she faltered, her voice cracked. "My God, Will, _you_ are my desire. I need you…" Soft, she whispered: "…now."

He sighed, consumed with the urge to gather her in his arms, this fragile beauty. But—

"We have only one more day," she cried, the salt burning on her cheeks. "Will." She clung to him. "I need you, need to be with you."

A sharp pain manifested in his chest, as if his heart had been pierced. He parted his lips, his eyes overcome by fierce agony. "Stop, Elizabeth," he hissed, his tongue rasped in near anger, as he grasped her about the waist, spinning her round to press her back hard against the door, his teeth scraping her lip. He held her prey to his desire longer than he intended as she raised her knee against his waist and uttered soft sighs which nigh drove him to distraction.

He yet broke away from her, albeit reluctantly, the fire in his eyes unabated. She was trembling; he supported her lest she should collapse.

"I am not all you desire," he muttered after gathering his breath.

"What?" she mouthed, her voice evading her.

"You desire a way out. Out of this life. I am not enough."

"Will!" she uttered, her voice strange in its shrillness.

"I have been yours since the day we met, love, and you have yet to be satisfied."

He turned away from her, running a hand through his locks as he released her.

"No," she murmured, catching his arm as she stumbled forward, the sharpness of her nails causing him to turn back to look at her tear-streaked face. "You have not been mine, for I _cannot _have you while we live here under these damned conditions!"

Will shifted his jaw, shaking his head. "You have been born into these conditions, you have thrived under these conditions."

Elizabeth wrenched her hand from his arm, scoffing. "Thrived?" She spoke the word as if t'were poison upon her tongue. "Stifling, beautified, and planned under an umbrella of propriety—this has been my existence. When have I thrived, been truly happy? Only when I escaped my boundaries. Only when I was with you, not paying heed to the realities of the world."

He sighed, beleaguered. "I am a fantasy to you, then."

"What are you talking about, Will? You—you're my life!" she muttered, her eyes flashing with vehemence, with a twinge of fear.

"I am the fantasy to cloud your reality. Your place is in _reality_, Elizabeth; your place is here, as the belle of English society." He traced her cheek with the tips of his fingers. "You are suited for this life, whereas I…am not. I have only complicated things for you, not improved them."

She pressed her hands against his chest and pushed him from her in fury. "So that's it, then? You're going to leave me to fulfill my life's obligation and yield to what you define as my 'reality'. You're going to give into society, let Greys win. You want to see me married to Greys, or better yet, Norrington. Really?" She paused, breathless from the elevation of her voice, the colour high in her cheeks.

"Eliz—"

"That's rubbish, Will!"

"Elizabeth…" He reached out to her, concern ebbing from his eyes.

"Don't even…" she began, stepping back from his touch. "Why did you ask me what I desired, when you knew so well what the answer would be, only to deny it to me?"

"Because…" he faltered and ran a hand through his locks as he is wont to do in moments of contention. "Perhaps it's not worth it, fighting a losing battle. Why continue the fight against balustrades of society that are so powerfully constructed? How can we, two mere people, break that construction in one day? It's impossible, Elizabeth."

She placed her hand on his shoulder, regarding him with sympathy as her anger subsided. "You said that it all depends on the one day. Doesn't it? Do you have so little faith in yourself? In me?"

He raised his eyes, looked at her, never before seeing in her complexion such sadness, fear, disbelief.

"You are not the man you used to be, William Turner," she murmured when he failed to speak.

"No, I…" He took her hand. "I am still the same person. It's just…"

"You once devoted yourself to extending the bounds of society for love, for my love, to secure our future. Where is that devotion now?"

She studied him, studied the agony in his expression, never before seeing the moisture gather in his eyes, a tear streaking across his cheek. Her chest burned and she moved forward to touch his face on instinct, a thousand apologies upon her tongue yet unspoken as he leaned his forehead against hers, and muttered with a rasp, "I am devoted to you; that's all that matters. Damn propriety."

He kissed her with gentleness which overpowered lust, sighing as she wrapped her arms round his neck, feeling comforted as she rested her head against his shoulder and embraced him.

"Oh, my Elizabeth," he murmured after moment. "You know I love you."

She looked up, inhaling. "Yes."

He stroked her hair. "Your desires will be fulfilled, for I could never deny you, I could never hurt you, though I fear I am placing you in harm's way."

"I would rather die a hundred times over than surrender to this blackmail," she said, her expression hardened.

"Yes," he responded, a subtle smirk discernible in his tone. "And that is how I know I am mistaken in my claim that you are suited for English society. You are decidedly _not_; you are far too ambitious."

A smile lit her face and she laughed. "Thank goodness you've come to your senses, my love. I feared I was losing you."

His hand caressed her neck. "You'll never lose me. I may stray, though you always seem to…how shall I put it? Persuade me to follow your direction."

She smiled again. "Is that what I am doing? Persuading? Well, it's for your own good, for you are decidedly too noble of a human being at times."

"Too noble?" he murmured, his grin restoring the carefree youth to his face. "How shall you have me, then—a bit roguish, the nature of a pirate?"

She slipped away from him, crossing her arms. "Exactly. If you want to win."

He studied her for a moment, his eyes turned serious. "All right. We have one day. We must use it wisely. Where is the compass?"

She blinked. "Upstairs. In the bedroom."

"Show it to me."

Without a word, Elizabeth moved to unlatch the door, and as she stepped into the foyer, she was surprised to notice that night had fallen. "You don't suppose Father's wondering why we didn't turn up for dinner?" she whispered. She felt his hand on her harm.

"There's no need to worry about that, is there?"

She almost blushed at the triviality, and without pause, ascended the staircase, entered the guestroom, found the compass where she had left it—in the pocket of Will's coat. He closed and locked the door, leaving them shrouded in the descending darkness. He then approached her, and she held the object in her hand.

"Where does it point?"

Flicking it open, Elizabeth watched the compass's needle flicker for a second before remaining quite still, pointed directly at—

"Me? Well that is flattering, love, but in order to think like a pirate, we must think like Jack."

Elizabeth closed the compass in irritation. "And how does Jack think?"

Will took the compass from her hand and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. "In steps. Small desires eventually lead to the one significant desire."

"Oh," she murmured, studying him with curiosity as he stepped out onto the balcony and opened the compass.

"Capturing the Lieutenant."

The needle swiveled back and forth, towards the docks of Port Royal, in the direction of the blacksmith shop.

"Ah," Will muttered.

"What is it?"

"The smithy. Our object shall be achieved there."

Elizabeth furrowed her brows. "Why the smithy?"

He led her back inside the room, securing the door, drawing closed the curtains, and whispered in the darkness, "Remember that tale I told at dinner, about fashioning a sword for our dear friend Lieutenant Greys?"

"Yes," Elizabeth answered, recalling with keenness his fast words, his charming recovery…before everything happened.

"'Twas not merely a ruse, for I have made a sword, and have been meaning to give it to him for some time now. Tomorrow may be the perfect opportunity."

"Oh," Elizabeth responded, her eyes widening. "What do you plan to do?"

He smiled in wry derision. "I plan to stab him in the back."

She raised an eyebrow. "Literally or figuratively?"

"Perhaps both."

"You are embracing the pirate in your blood."

"I must, if I want to win."

"So I said."

"So you said. Counter blackmail with ransom. Life and death hang in the balance."

She touched him, and jumped at the jolt of electricity which pierced through her fingers, shocking her heart. "Place their lives at our mercy."

He settled his hands at her waist. "Indeed. Cut them to the quick." His eyes gleamed with something akin to bloodlust and Elizabeth needn't ask the question next upon her lips. "I will ensure our freedom," Will continued. "With or without Jack. Though I've a feeling he will inadvertently help us in achieving his own ends." He weaved his fingers gently through her hair, all the while gazing at with intent.

"Let's not speak about Jack," Elizabeth uttered in a hushed tone.

Will smiled, warm. "What shall we speak about, then? How we'll run off into the sunset after all this is over, sail upon the seas for a while, love each other passionately and have children who embrace piracy?"

She failed to answer as the breath hitched in her throat when her back hit against the bedpost, when his fingers began to unlace the ties of the bodice of her gown.

"That is a fairly romanticized notion, I'll admit. But not impossible. What do you say?" he murmured conversationally, his fingers reaching her navel where he stopped.

"Nothing," Elizabeth whispered, moving back a bit.

He regarded with a tilt to his head in mock curiosity. "Really? But surely…"

She slipped the gown from her shoulders; it fell in a heap of material at her feet. "We've spoken enough tonight," she said, her eyes glittering.

He smirked, glancing down at his ripped shirt. "Do you wish to finish it off, or shall I?"

She didn't answer; stared at him.

He tore the shirt through, casting it off, and came towards her, bare and broad-shouldered, and then kissed her without touching her, a teasing lightness in the pressure of his lips. With a groan of irritation, she drew his hand to her waist. He chuckled against her mouth and with a sudden movement, pushed her onto sumptuous pillows. She groaned, twisting, curving her body under his touch, and whispered, "Yes, I want to finish it off."

Kissing deeply, the fruits of freedom were enjoyed before they were won.


	10. War: Part I

Progressing Against Propriety

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of this genre.

A/N: This is officially Part II of the story. I am estimating another 10 chapters before it is finished. Additionally, this chapter is split into 2, being so long. Expect a continuation (chapter 11) soon.

* * *

The day began on a dismal note, dreary and without a lick of sunshine, the clouds gathering in a gray throng with a veil of blinding white fog in their midst. Rain threatened; did not come. Yet, the chambermaid Marianna was certain of its impending arrival as she made her rounds through the mansion: a delivery of steaming tea to the Governor's study, passing converse with the candid kitchen servants, parting the curtains and opening doors to air rooms which saw scarce use. These tasks she performed at the striking hour of dawn. Her final morning duty was summoning her charge, Elizabeth Swann, nay Turner, a duty she executed with some wariness of late. The duplicity she had partaken in ever since her mistress's marriage to that boy, to that blacksmith—what ever did she see in him?; certainly, he had naught to recommend him—had caused her some reluctance and uneasiness. A feeling of guilt stole over her whenever she told a small falsehood to the Governor—the Governor of Port Royal, for heaven's sake!—yet she assured herself on such occasions of her duty to serve her mistress at all costs. She often wondered, in spite of this, whether that constituted lying.

Alas! Accounts from the other servants about the household depicted Elizabeth as a sweet child, quite amiable, and a clear favourite of Marianna's predecessor, Estrella. Indeed, upon meeting Elizabeth after her scarce spoken of pirate kidnapping, Marianna could not help but succumb to the endearing gleam in her new mistress's eyes. She was won over by Elizabeth's sweet and charming nature and knew that she would cater to the girl to her utmost ability. "Yes, Miss Swann," she responded to Elizabeth's every inquiry. She was such a pleasant girl, going on outings in her best dress and returning to the household with her face all aglow and her manner unremittingly cheerful, fanciful. "What an angel!" Marianna had thought. "So unaffected, so naïve and genteel!"

She had possessed no inkling that her dear Elizabeth's exuberant nature was due to the fact that she was courting her childhood companion William Turner, the town blacksmith. She had possessed no inkling of the cunning and fiery spirit within her dear Elizabeth, no inkling of her rebellious streak, of her disregard for propriety and utter disdain for societal establishment. Not then, no. Elizabeth was still an angel, the belle of English society set to marry a nobleman.

Marianna had experienced such shock upon discovering the truth that evening when her eyes seemed to open for the first time since assuming her station at the mansion. She had entered her mistress's bedroom to place coals neath her covers to ensure her warmth when—lo and behold! The window was open; cold air blew in and the curtains fluttered. Elizabeth Swann—dear, innocent girl—was being seized in the arms of a man who held her captive against his body whilst forcing his lips on hers. Oh! How Marianna did scream! The noise caused the man to release Elizabeth. Marianna was prepared to dash the coals over the man's head when her mistress released such fury as Marianna had never before witnessed.

This was Elizabeth Swann, a woman of experience rather than a naïve child. The discrepancy brought shame to Marianna. How could _she_ be so foolish, so oblivious to the truth?

The man was William Turner, the object of Elizabeth's dearest affections. Not long after that incident, the couple was formally betrothed. Not long after their betrothal, they were married. Married. And Marianna should no longer treat her as "my mistress," yet she continued to do so, perhaps out of nostalgic hope for that which had never been.

As Marianna walked through the west wing, she contemplated the perception that Elizabeth Swann had been corrupted by marriage. Where had she gone wrong? What proper woman would go so strongly against the will of society? Marianna shook her head; sighed. Poor Elizabeth, tarnished soul. She would never ascend to Heaven.

As Marianna set to opening the doors of the vacant rooms, she was taken by surprise by a door that had already been opened; it stood ajar. With curiosity, she entered. It was a spare room, quite sparse, the only articles of furniture being a small settee and a piano. But what caught Marianna's attention was not the settee and piano, but rather the figure seated before the piano. Marianna started.

"Miss Elizabeth?"

The silhouette of a woman stirred but did not turn about.

Marianna approached. The gray light of the morning gave her mistress's face a pallid appearance. "Miss Elizabeth, what are you doing?" she asked, for lack of other words.

Elizabeth stroked the dusty keys of the piano with a slender finger. "I never learnt to play, you know," she murmured, and struck a note.

Marianna winced; the instrument was severely out of tune. "Miss…you should come down to breakfast."

Elizabeth uttered a long sigh and pushed her long curls from her face with her hands, coming to look at Marianna full in the eyes. "That's rather superfluous, don't you think?"

Marianna did not know what to say in response to this. There was a strange gleam in her mistress's eyes, a gleam she did not care to question. "Where is Mr. Turner?" she attempted once more.

At the mention of the name, Elizabeth's countenance softened. "My husband," she murmured, slow and deliberate. "He is…"

"Elizabeth." Another voice entered the room—strong, beckoning, commanding in its tone.

Marianna looked towards the door at the man in question. Without a glance at the chambermaid, he strode to Elizabeth, leaning down to wrap his arms around her waist, kissing her neck before whispering in her ear.

Marianna reddened at this forward display of affection. The impropriety! Wedded or not, this was certainly not appropriate behaviour, certainly not. "What a husband she has landed," Marianna thought in derision to herself. The man continued to fondle Elizabeth with no regard to Marianna's presence whatsoever, with no regard to decorum.

A clearing of the throat caused Marianna to blink, realizing that both her mistress and Mr. Turner stood, the latter having a glaring and accusatory glint in his eyes. Marianna felt abashed for staring, for judging. She turned, and without a word, started to leave, when Elizabeth said,

"No, Will, wait a moment. Marianna came to ask what I was doing, and I believe I should tell her."

Marianna stopped, turned back round.

Elizabeth's eyes were bright and cold. "I was just thinking, what if I had married an upper-class gentleman? Lieutenant Greys, for example."

Marianna noticed William Turner's hand tighten upon Elizabeth's arm.

"How different my life would be," Elizabeth continued with a sigh.

Marianna felt a flicker of hope—perhaps her mistress was finally coming to her senses.

"A lifelong dream of every girl, is it not, Marianna? To be an ornament, a symbol of social status, a vessel for the accomplished husband to enact sexual and political conquest time and time again…" Her voice cracked, moisture filled her eyes.

The man, William Turner, was murmuring to her. But Marianna failed to see or hear them anymore. For they, the Turners, had failed to see her for weeks now. She had been so biased, so prejudiced. Her mistress Elizabeth Swann was married to—dare she say it?—the man she loved, William Turner. For failing to realize this, Marianna was scorned and unwanted. Her cheeks burned with shame. "Mr. and Mrs. Turner, I am so sorry—" she said, but soon perceived that she was speaking to an empty room, for the couple had left, never to be seen by her eyes again. She sat down upon the settee and a cloud a dust rose up round her.

* * *

"I'm sorry."

"For what?" Will murmured, holding Elizabeth in his arms, breathing in her scent.

"For…saying those things. It was unwarranted," she replied.

Will stepped back, lifted her face, kissed her cheeks damp and tasting of salt. "Don't worry," he whispered, his eyes laden, dark and beautiful. "I will put this madness to rest. Those thoughts will nevermore plague your mind."

She grasped his collar in an abrupt fit of passion, her eyes fierce. "You shouldn't have to do this. I would willingly go in your place. It is my turn to dally with fate, after all."

To her surprise, a smile curved his lips, soft laughter thereafter. "I do recall you implicating as such, after which I was unfairly persuaded into acquiescence."

She returned a smile, unable to resist his, so infectious. "What do you mean, you were 'unfairly persuaded'?"

"Well…" His smile broadened and he placed his hands at her waist. "I believe it had something to do with our engagement in more pleasurable activity, but I can't be certain."

Her eyes burned gold and she wrapped her hands about his neck, pressing her lips to his ear. "Would you like reminding? I am willing to 'persuade' you as many times as is necessary."

He swallowed. Her voice was quiet and sultry, the utter closeness of her lips excruciating. He cleared his throat. "Ehem, no. That is…unneeded."

"But, Will," she whined, her lips lingering for a moment at the juncture of his jaw and neck before her teeth grazed his earlobe.

"God, Elizabeth," he moaned, breathless, capturing her lips with such force that she weakened in his arms.

She was panting, her breast heaving, her eyes brilliant when he broke away from her. His countenance shadowed over in a veil of regret and sorrow.

"My love, I cannot have you while this darkness lingers over us."

Elizabeth bit her lip, her severe want of him intensified, in fact, by the situation which hung over their heads. The blade was poised; it had only to drop with a certain movement, and their lives were devastated. Elizabeth stepped forward to touch his face. "What if I never see you again?"

"Don't say that," he responded, looking away from her in presumed annoyance.

"Will," she encouraged, not wishing him to practice optimism just then, wishing rather that he would be a realist, that he would see—

"Elizabeth, stop looking at me that way," he muttered, harsh when he moved her hand and jerked down her wrist. "Come—we will say goodbye in the garden, and then I must leave you." With a sharp turn of his heel, he strode out of the drawing room, through the foyer and unused study, passing through the glass doors, pulling Elizabeth along without looking at her pained and protesting visage.

"Will, please stop!" she entreated as she stumbled into the lush garden, a cold and damp wind assaulting her.

He obeyed; turned round and looked at her. His eyes withheld bitter anguish, desperate longing. "Elizabeth," he muttered, his voice soft. He touched her shoulder, traced down her arm. He gazed at her for a moment, a faint smile flickering over his features. "You own my heart," he said at last. 'T'was stated definitively, as a fact. "Should anything happen to me—"

"Will, don't…" she started, in spite of her desire to opt for realism.

"—will you keep it safe?"

She stared into his eyes, a thousand emotions welling within her, fast and hot and endless, like the blood which surges from a wound once the skin is broken by the stroke of a knife. "Yes," she answered, her voice raw from the tightening of her throat. She stepped forward, touching his chest. Her eyes glittered. "Yes."

A tear dampened his cheek. With a whimpering sigh, he gathered her into his arms and kissed her, long and deep and beautiful. Yet he parted from her too abrupt, the embrace ended too quickly, and as he turned to leave, she grabbed his arm and kissed him again, her lips lingering upon his as he lifted her off the ground and held her against his chest. His hands felt the curves and outline of her body; he pressed his face against her neck; kissed the swell of her chest; he pushed back the layered material of her skirt to graze his fingers against the bare skin of her legs as she wrapped herself around his waist.

He made love to her in the dark corner of the garden. Quick, yet passionate, his eyes holding promise as she gazed at him through tears as quivers of pleasure and agony rippled through her body.

He left her on the white bench, sheltered by standing ivy. Words were no longer spoken. She sat, watching his shadow disappear from the garden, not knowing what to think or how to feel. She was blank. The clouds were accumulating, darkening. She did not move until it started to rain, and then, she touched her hand to her lower abdomen, to the area above her womb.


	11. War: Part II

Progressing Against Propriety

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of this genre.

* * *

Her scent lingered on his clothes. Her taste lingered on his lips. The rain splattered against his skin, raising her aroma into the air round him in a misty wreath. He turned the heavy metal key in the door. The wood resisted, having expanded from the dampness. He shoved his body against it and it flew open with a creak. The clumps of hay—the smithy floor was perpetually littered with roughage which constituted the mule's feed—crackled under his feet as he walked into the shop, warm yet filled with the reek of rainwater. He removed his coat; placed it over a chair. Removed the cloth which bound his locks; shook his head and expelled water droplets.

He strode over to the familiar rack on which hung a myriad of swords, beautifully crafted, eying each one with care. His fingers alighted upon one in the centre, shining dark silver in the dim light. Folded steel, perfectly balanced, the tang nearly the full width of the blade, gold filigree on the handle. Norrington's sword. His eyes darkened. The Commodore had left it before taking off on the seas after the adventure at the Isle de Muerta. He had found it resting upon the hearth of the smithy the day his engagement to Elizabeth Swann had been announced. He had been at first rebuffed, insulted. But then, looking at it, looking at this perfect sword, he felt superior, realizing that the Commodore possessed nothing that rightfully belonged to him. For the sword was _his_, the Governor's daughter was _his_: the pride of his heart. He lifted the sword from the rack, running his fingers along the blade, so familiar.

"You will do," he murmured. He touched the end of the sword to test its sharpness, and smiled. He was pleased that Norrington had not used it to bluntness, had not used it very much at all, for it still appeared new to him, as fine as it had the day he presented it to Governor Swann. "Oh, but now I shall present you as retribution rather than compliment." He envisioned the mark he would leave upon the Greys, the both of them. The satisfying slash of the sword upon the skin to cause blood to gather to the surface gradually, the fine sliver of flesh changing from pink to scarlet; the depth of the small wound incalculable, the red liquid beginning to pool at the edges of the wound; and the blood finally gushing forth, the dark rivulets swathing the body, at once enlivened, at once a corpse.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, William."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, spinning about, extending the sword to defend against an invisible opponent.

A figure emerged from the shadows. Boots, long waist-coat, a tricorn. The swarthy face—the figure revealed himself.

"Jack?" Will lowered the sword, a breath of relief escaping him. "What're you doing here?"

The pirate smiled, gold glinting. "Didn't think ol' Jack would leave you high an' dry, did you?"

Will did not answer.

"So what's your plan? Lure the bastards here, gut them like fish, and abscond the premises with tracks of blood in your wake?"

He braced his shoulders, his countenance darkening. "I wouldn't put it quite like that, Jack."

"Really, now?" Jack stepped up to him, fixing upon him a shrewd glare. "Remember when…" he rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, as if in thought. "…oh, not too long ago now, I asked you what you'd be willing to do to save your bonny lass?"

Will lifted his eyes to meet Jack's. "I would still die for her."

The corner of Jack's lips twitched, though he did not smile. "That was purely a rhetorical question, mate; I didn't think you'd take it to heart. Carnage would certainly fail to leave an amiable impression on your beloved, 'specially if you're in the midst of it." Jack gestured with his hands, and a wicked image filled Will's mind, but he shook his head in a hurry to erase it.

He felt his sword between his hands once more, and a sudden power seemed to consume him. "I know what I'm doing Jack. I'm going to use this sword to kill Greys."

Jack drew his own sword, angling the blade at Will's throat. "I can't let you do that, William. If Greys is dead, then all our lives are in considerably more danger."

Will glared at him, shoving his sword away. "_Our _lives, Jack? Or _yours_?"

Jack thought fast; Admiral Greys was the one from whom he could earn pardon. Though the man wanted him in the noose, a little persuasion could certainly provide Jack enough time. Just as it had before, when he struck a deal with one Cutler Beckett of the East India Trading Company. He could do it again, and this time—this time he would lie low, give the Company what they wanted, pirate under the guise of a privateer. He could exist in this manner for years. Years, _if _Greys was not dead. Dead, and Norrington and his ilk would continue their rampage against him. Having granted him clemency, so to speak, once, he would not be willing to do it again.

"Now William, surely you have more faith in me than that? Who am I, Jack Sparrow, to shun the wellbeing of others in order to achieve my own ends?"

Will regarded him with a wary eye.

"I only ask you to think of the repercussions," Jack urged. "Imagine what the Royal Navy will think when they come upon slain bodies in _your _smithy. Who will they blame? Your work will have been for naught; you will be sent straight to the noose, along with your dearly beloved."

Will pondered his words, letting down his guard, and thinking very much of Elizabeth, of her safety, of her life. What good would it be if all this resulted in was death?

"Governor Swann will have been right on the mark all along. He will have evidence behind his claims that you were a bad match for his daughter, a dark stain upon his good name. You will be remembered only as the man who tarnished the royalty of Port Royal, the man who—"

"Shut it!" Will seized, grasping Jack by the lapels of his coat, and shoving him hard against the wall, positioning his sword at Jack's throat. Will's eyes blazed with fury; he appeared as if he might run Jack through there and then. Jack yet smiled. Smiled.

"I presume you've come to reason, then?"

With a grunt of disgust, Will released him, sending him to barrel backwards into a pile of hot coals.

Will turned away, ignoring the pirate's cry of "Bugger!", and ran his shaking hands through his locks, pacing, pacing, thinking only then of Elizabeth. Elizabeth alone in the garden, susceptible. Susceptible, but not defenseless, thank Heaven for that—she kept a sword in the cupboard of her bedroom, a sword she knew how to handle quite well, due to his teachings. There was also a pistol, of course, hidden in the drawer where her most intimate evening garments were kept. Strategic placement. Even if Marianna or another of the probing maids happened upon that drawer, they would shut it quick in embarrassment and never venture to look in again. _She is armed,_ Will thought, his guilt over leaving her abating ever so slightly in this reassurance. She would know what to do with the sword, there was no doubt. He could not fathom her resorting to the pistol, could not fathom her firing bullets unless it was absolutely necessary. She would not have murder on her hands. Yet, would he? Would he, in good conscience, be able to kill a person, even if that person wanted him dead?

"All right," Will consented, turning back to look upon Jack, who stood brushing bits of charcoal from his person. "What will you have me do?"

"Anything at all, William," he replied with utmost simplicity, striding towards the door. "Think like me, if you must. Only, do _not _kill Greys." He opened the door to the smithy; stepped out into the steady rain, and whispered, "Trust me", before vanishing into the gloom.

* * *

"Elizabeth? What on Earth—why are you all wet?"

She sat down at the head of the breakfast table, pushing back damp strands of hair which clung to her face, and then folded her hands in her lap, looking down at the white tablecloth in resolute elusion, studying the lace embellishment. "I went out for air this morning and was caught in the rain, that's all."

"Well, that was rather unwise. Did you not hear the thunder at dawn?"

Elizabeth looked up; her father sat on the right side of the table, several seats down from her, rolling up the cuffs of his sleeves before swallowing a forkful of the food on his plate—some assortment of victuals which Elizabeth did not care to discern.

"You should adhere to the Doctor's orders; at this rate you'll become ill again."

Elizabeth sighed, beleaguered. "Just let it alone, Father."

"Elizabeth, I am merely trying to…Elizabeth?" He stopped to study her face. "Why, what's the matter, child?"

She looked down again, not wishing him to discern the wetness of her eyes, the agitation in her countenance. "Nothing." She looked round the room, as if searching for something, and rubbed her arms. "Is there any tea?"

"Charlotte will bring some presently," the Governor answered, concern in his tone, and the serving maid, having heard Elizabeth's request, entered the room with a tray bearing a pot of the beverage surrounded by cups and scones. She moved to pour the tea and present a cup to the lady, but the Governor asked her to refrain from doing so; instead to leave the refreshments on the table. Charlotte bowed, taking her leave.

Elizabeth reached for a teacup, but her hand shook and faltered, lying limp upon the table. The Governor covered that hand, cool and pale, with his own.

"My dear."

She looked up. His voice was endearing, his tone the same as it had been when she was child, when he was patient and willing to listen to her troubles or fantasies, or whatever else was on her mind.

"What's bothering you?"

She looked at him full in the eyes. "Do you ever have the feeling, when you're speaking to someone, that it's the last time? The last time you'll speak to them, the last time you'll see them again?" Her voice was tense, quiet.

The Governor gazed at her in silence for a moment, before shaking his head. "If I didn't know any better, I would think that you were weighing life and death in the palm of your hand."

Elizabeth's heart quickened. How much could she tell him? "I…"

"As a matter of fact…" the Governor started, and Elizabeth silenced her potential words. "I _have _had that feeling. That feeling of…loss." A veil of sadness passed over his face. "I was with your mother, the day after your birth. We were happy, looking forward to our lives, but she very weak. She took my hand, and drew me close. _'I love her,'_ she said. _'I christen her Elizabeth. She will be a good girl. She will find her way in the world and be all that I could not. She will be happy.'_ I replied, '_As you are happy now?' _She said, _'No, she will possess unparalleled happiness, though obstacles will stand in her way.' _I did not take into account the future manifestation of her words. A few hours, perhaps less, and she was gone."

He paused, and Elizabeth grasped his hand, shocked and pained, never having heard this poignant depiction of her mother in all her years. "The marriage was arranged, it is true; we were not lovers. Still, I was very fond of Elinor. Perhaps I had even grown to love her in our brief time together." He released a heavy sigh. "It seems…we always lose those who mean the most to us."

Tears welled in Elizabeth's eyes. "Father, there is something I must tell you."

"Governor Swann." The butler knocked on the door.

He regarded his daughter apologetically. "Yes, Charles?"

"An Admiral Greys is here, sir."

The Governor rose, tossing his napkin on the table, and frowned. "Show him out; I do not wish to see him."

"He requests the audience of Mrs. Turner, sir."

"No! I refuse it, I—"

Elizabeth placed a hand on his arm. "I will see him, Father."

He looked at her in surprise. "You are certain?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"Then…then I will not stop you." He resumed his seat in his chair, and drew a hand over his face, as if in defeat.

A chord struck her heart. "Oh, Father," she murmured, and pressed her lips to his temple before exiting the room. Governor Swann saw the bottom of her skirt, mauve-blue, before she vanished, and her presence was lost to him.

* * *

"Mrs. Turner," the Admiral greeted with a smile, his blue eyes gleaming as he extended a hand to her.

Elizabeth stood before him and surveyed him with a cold and arched eye. "What do you want?"

He cocked his head, stepping closer to her. "Take my arm like a good girl; we must observe pleasantries."

Elizabeth's eyes flashed, her lips pursed, and she strode past him in a flurry of her skirts and opened the front door. The rain had grown heavy. The accompanying wind was fierce, giving it a characteristic slant as it poured down, causing some rainwater to spill unto the marble floors through the open doorway.

She glared at him, the door handle slick and cold as she grasped it. Her damp hair fluttered loose before her eyes.

He approached, the heels of his shoes scraping like nails on glass upon the floor. "You are terribly rude, I must say," he remarked, his eyes roving over her in a manner unbecoming to a gentleman. "I may have to shorten your time for that."

Elizabeth resisted the urge to strike him. "You wouldn't dare."

He laughed, out of place. "No, no. I am a man of my word. In fact, I am feeling lenient. I give you until the stroke of midnight. If the deal is not agreed to by then…" He made a motion with his hand. Elizabeth turned a shade paler. He stepped out into the downpour. "It's been a pleasure, as usual, Elizabeth. Give my regards to your husband, hmm?"

She shut the door before she did something rash, something she would regret. Without a thought, she ascended the stairs and entered her bedroom. She rummaged through a drawer of her dresser, her hands passing over negligees of lace and silk and satin, until her fingers touched an object hard and cold.

She extracted the pistol; hid it within the folds of her skirt. She then garmented herself with her thick traveling cloak, found the makeshift rope of twisted sheets in her closet. She tossed the rope from the window; the bottom brushed the grass; she made her way out of the mansion. As her feet touched the ground, she knew what she must do.


	12. War: Part III

Progressing Against Propriety

Disclaimer: I do not own any part of this genre.

A/N: Warning: This chapter includes dark themes, elements of a 'M-rated' nature as opposed to the elements of T-rating in Chapter 4 of this story.

* * *

A dull echo reverberated throughout the halls of the mansion with the closing of the door.

"Elizabeth? Elizabeth, where are you? There was something you wanted to…"

Governor Swann paused with an abrupt halt in his step at the base of the stairwell. Passing across the foyer and through the drawing room to no avail, he gained hope upon hearing a creak of the upstairs floorboards, a voice. He touched the railing; ascended the spiralling stairs; reached the open doorway to his daughter's quarters. "Elizabeth, are you here?"

"Governor Swann."

'Twas not the voice of his daughter who answered him—no—but the voice of the chambermaid.

"Marianna," he responded in surprise, his eyes confused and searching. "Where is she? And where is Will?"

The maid lowered her glance, a flush of colour overcoming her visage. "Sir, I…I don't…"

Discounting her stammers, he pressed on, the door yielding neath the pressure of his fingers, and a cold breeze touched his face as he stood amidst the room, the room of his girl's childhood and adolescence, the room which supported her into adulthood. At once so colourful. Though as he looked about, the surroundings appeared to him dull and vapid, the vibrant light gone out in the absence of her presence. White and crisp, all immaculate, all undisturbed, save for a single drawer of her dresser left open, silken garments spilling forth. A frisk of air ruffled the atmosphere and a garment slipped from the edge of the drawer onto the floor: a sheer scarf, stitched with her initials, _ES_. The Governor recognized the scarf immediately; he had given it as a gift not long after their arrival from England. As he bent to pick it up, he noticed a snag—the stitching of the letter _S_ had been taken out and replaced with a rudimentary stitching of the letter _T _in its place. He sighed, folding it and placing it atop the dresser. When had she done that? he wondered, and realized it must have been many years since, before she had begun sewing lessons at the age of fourteen. "God, you loved him even then," he murmured to himself.

The air grew cold once more, causing him to turn and seek its source. His gaze fell upon the open window, from which extended a long line of bed sheets tied together. He touched the line and recognized his daughter's hand from when she executed the same manoeuvre upon the seas, following her rescue from the hands of pirates. His shook his head, his heart heavy, disbelieving. "What have you done?"

He turned and approached Marianna, who lingered by the door. "Do you know anything of this?" he questioned, putting his hands on her shoulders, his eyes afire in desperation and insistence.

As he looked upon her with concern for his only daughter so apparent in his countenance, Marianna's resolve to keep the secrets of her mistress shattered to bits.

"Governor, I overheard the conversation between the Admiral and Mrs. Turner."

"And?" he urged, shaking the maid's shoulders in his anxiety.

"He was threatening her! They had made a deal, I suppose, she and Mr. Turner. A deal with the devil, I swear it—never did I lay eyes on such a man with poison in his smile and menace in his eyes."

"Deal? What was it?"

Tears were streaming down her face. "He—the Admiral—gave her 'til midnight. And then…" She covered her face with her hands, unable to continue as she was wracked with sobs.

He dropped his hands, the word _Elizabeth_ dying on his lips in the stagnant atmosphere.

* * *

Lieutenant Greys reclined at a desk, adding lumps of sugar to a cup of tea whilst scanning sheaves of warrants.

"Hmm…that pirate, Sparrow, still wanted," he mumbled to himself in interest.

"Lieutenant?" A knock sounded at his door.

"Yes, come in." He did not glance up.

"A note has arrived for you, Sir. You are requested at the smithy. The craftsman wishes to hand you your sword personally."

"Really?" He sipped the tea, raising his eyes only enough to distinguish one of the military personnel. "That's quite peculiar. Weaponry is usually sent here to me." He sighed. "I'll merely dispatch the delivery boy—Robert? Is that his name?—to fetch it."

"The note specifically sends for you, Sir."

"Let me see that," the Lieutenant ordered, impatient, and frowned, rising from his desk to snatch the note from the man's hand. He scanned it; the word URGENT was printed in capitalized script amidst the detailed substance of the missive, signed _W.T., Proprietor_. "Rubbish," he grunted, letting the slip of parchment fall to the floor. "I shall go, but it had better be worth my while," he consented, slamming the door in the man's face.

"Oh, it _will_ be, Sir," the man said with a smirk as he lifted his hat. He was unrecognizable in navy brocade and powder-white wig, save for his dark-rimmed eyes and the P-shaped mark on his wrist brought to notice as he lifted his arm.

* * *

Rain pelted in relentless strokes as she checked her bullets once more, her fingers cold and slippery against the pistol. A flintlock with but one shot, requiring her utmost precision. She studied the weapon, careful about the trigger. She sighed, heavy, and pressed her back against the stone wall, closing her eyes in brief thought. One shot. She recalled back to the Isle de Muerta, recalled her shock upon witnessing Jack Sparrow fire that single shot at his adversary, Barbossa. Recalled the look of satisfaction in his dark eyes, the tone of finality as Barbossa fell to the ground whilst smoke rose from the pistol's barrels. Blood poured from the wound in the chest, seeped through the clothing. She had stepped across the rocks, avoiding the body, yet caught a glimpse of it as she departed the cave to step into the longboat. A lifeless body. She had glanced at Jack, wondering if he suffered any guilt, any second-thoughts, and had muttered 'I'm sorry': _I'm sorry for what you had to do_. 'They done what's right by them; can't expect more than that'. They were having separate conversations. She had interpreted his words as: _My consciences acted accordingly and therefore I cannot blame them_. She had given him more credit than he deserved; cast him as a profound, morally conflicted figure. She had expected something neath the surface of his being, some hidden brilliance. Yet there was no shine of lustre under that grimy covering. He was merely…a pirate. Ruthless, cunning, either straightforward or vague when he wanted to be, but not philosophical, not cultural, _not _profound. Not her. Not her at all.

She opened her eyes; cold and rain. Here she was, and despite all, she was _like him_. A freedom-craving radical who possessed a single shot meant for one person, and one person alone. For all intents and purposes, a pirate, content to shirk all responsibilities and wish hell upon the world as she went off to ramble across the seas.

There was a key difference. She meant to do this out of love, not out of revenge.

_But we've got to save Will!_

_No! You're safe now. We will…not go gallivanting after pirates._

_Then we condemn him to death._

_The boy's fate is regrettable, but then, so is his decision to engage in piracy._

_To rescue me, to prevent anything from happening to me!_

She had pleaded for Will's deliverance and was refused. Turned against by her father once, what certainty was there that he would not act in the same manner again? Though it pained her heart, she was relieved that she had been unable to disclose her difficulties to him. _Their _difficulties. He would not see it as a shared burden; he would place the blame on that rogue blacksmith William Turner. He would ensure her safety while having no qualms about forsaking Will to whatever fate may befall him.

She returned the pistol to its place within the folds of her gown, her eyes glittering with renewed ferocity. "I will not abandon you again," she vowed. "Piracy is what saved _me_; now it shall save _you._"

She stepped into the deluge, raising the hood of her cloak. "You were willing to die for me." She brought her hand to her lips and kissed her wedding ring before wrapping her arms about her middle. "Well, my darling, I am willing to kill for you." She walked fast, en route to the naval headquarters. "I have an investment in our future now, and so the death of us is simply unacceptable," she whispered to the wind, urging her words to carry to her husband.

* * *

A caterwaul sounded in the distance—the cries of mendicants victim to the rush of rainwater. Torrents soused the streets, so inexorable as to suggest severe anger or lamentation. The firmament was dark, nigh burgundy; lightning pierced the depths, agonized eruptions of silver so potent as to strike a man dead in his steps.

She looked up, her eyes glistening in the moisture-laden illumination, and crouched amidst puddles that sloshed about her, knee-deep, as she descended the embankment. Coming across partial cover by overhanging palms, she took momentary shelter, shuddering neath what she could only presume to be the wrath of God.

"If You mean to manifest Your fury, do so upon those deserving of it," she hissed.

As if in answer, a resounding shriek pierced the heavens, the wind buffeting, crackling, and the body of the palm snapped, the trunk splintering, and the broad, wet, green leaves bent low over her, providing a canopy to shield her. She inclined herself forward, positioned in a stance akin to that of a tigress stalking its prey.

A male figure upon the docks caught her immediate attention. She angled herself upwards, peering out from the foliage. The blue and gold coat and white breeches, the self-important walk, caused fire to burn in her veins. Adrenaline surged through her in the place of fear and she lunged forward, all but tackling the figure as she pressed the barrel to his neck. She smiled, lust controlling her mind in the absence of all rational thought.

"I give you my answer now, Admiral," she stated, her voice elevated and erratic, and moved her finger towards the trigger when a sharp jab from his elbow caused her to lose her grip, and before she was able to regain herself, she was trapped under him, her arms restricted.

"What the bloody hell are you doing, impudent wench?" he growled. As he leaned closer to force her to her feet, a cold grip of shock, of embarrassment, enclosed around her heart. She frowned, her body beginning to shake of a sudden. She did not feel thick, no; did not undergo a sense of enlightenment regarding the rashness of murder. A mixture of rage and disappointment festered in her limbs and tears that pricked her eyes were hot against her skin, and all she wanted was…

"I…I thought you were him."

He shoved her down, down into the mire, and they crouched there, the waters swirling round them, as he met her eyes. "That's no excuse." He shook his head. "Seems you an' the whelp are intent on doing something stupid, despite my incessant warnings against it," he fumed, his eyes dark, and he tossed off the white confection atop his head in disgust; it sunk in the mud. His long dreadlocks fell over his shoulders, his trinkets winking in the rain. He cleared his throat, adjusting a beaded rope at his crown, and murmured, "Better." He regarded her again with regained composure.

"Lizzie." He took her hand and she looked at him, her eyes fierce. "Do _not _do anything rash; ergo, do _not _kill the Admiral."

She offered him an expression of bewilderment. "Why ever not? Do you really think that I would allow this one, poor excuse of a man to dangle a poisoned carrot in front of our noses, our only outcome being death whether we take the bait or not?"

He rubbed his forehead in exasperation and exclaimed, "Just…shut it for a moment, will you?" before launching into a harangue against her reasoning, employing the similar rhetorical devices inducing guilt which had worked their charm so effectually upon Will.

If not for his small part in aiding their escape, she would consider throwing him to the wolves without pause, for what was the navy's true object? Capturing the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow, who had escaped their clutches time and time again.

"Where is the _Pearl_, then? The promise of her arrival to transport us to safety is the _only _thing that is keeping me from presenting you to Greys myself."

"Patience! Patience, love," he insisted, and tapped his temple with a forefinger. "You just leave those details up to ol' Jack."

She rose to her feet, pushing him away scathingly. "Tosh!"

"All right, all right, allow me revert a bit, if only to dissuade you from acting in a manner that you are sure to regret!" he menaced. His hard breaths manifested in pockets of gray mist round him as the rain continued in an onslaught, drenching them to the core. "_Pearl _or not, I promise you that a ship will be ready for our departure."

"When?"

"Tonight," he answered, not missing a beat.

She stared at him in silence for a moment, wondering whether to believe him. "What—are you going to commandeer one?"

He tilted his head fixing her with a glower. "That's not for you to worry about, darling." He shoved her forward. "Your one and only duty is ensuring that the ambush of the dear Lieutenant runs smoothly, so that we may proceed with the ransom as planned."

"To hell with the plan," she muttered under her breath, and felt round her skirt. "Give me my pistol, Sparrow."

He presented it to her, yet held it out of her grasp. "You only use it in circumstances that deem it utterly necessary."

She leered, her eyes wide and cunning as a feline's, and wrested the firearm from his hand. "Fine."

"Fine," he returned, and they both stepped back from one another at equal pace, both realizing in that moment that personal agenda overrode collaborative aims at all costs. "First one to the finish, then?" He held out his hand, a wry smile upon his face.

She tucked the pistol away and turned on her heel without a word.

* * *

"Will?" she questioned as she tried the door to the smithy, which, to her relief, was unbarred, and opened without difficulty. It had not been closed all the way, in fact. She entered, gratified by the dry warmth emanating from a fire which crackled in the hearth. The charcoal disintegrated into mere cinders, sending bits of black soot to stain the skin and attire of any person who came too close.

Will used the fire to heat metal, turning it malleable in order to mould and sculpt into swords and other weaponry; such finished products hung in elegant rows above her head. She stepped closer, warming her face and hands, shrugging off her cloak, the drenched material only serving to encase her body in cold. After a moment of repose, after her skin turned scarlet in the contrast of ice and fire, she rose, calling his name again. She ascended the narrow staircase, which led to his old sleeping quarters. She did not find him, though his coat and hat were draped across the bed. She touched the garments, hoping that she would gain insight to his whereabouts if she did so. Naught. "But why would he go without this?" she pondered to herself. She sighed, returning down the stairs, each step creaking with the pressure of her feet. She sat down upon a chair in the corner of the smithy, restless, yet knowing that she would rather be here, in this place which held so many fond memories for her, than amongst the inundation in an attempt to seek her husband, when she could very well find herself in contrasting company.

She sat still, gazing at the fire, and mesmerized by the dancing flames, she fell into a slumber.

* * *

Night rose as if on the wings of a dove, quiet and graceful and feathery, pockmarked with flecks of black which obscured the moon in eternal verisimilitude of timelessness, of day which is stagnant and endless, lacking the rise of the sun and the moon. Rain continued in its steady rhythm, offering no quarter.

The bell was rung at the smithy; the ringer gazed up at the sign: _W. Turner_. "Ah…well, well, well, this certainly makes things interesting." He rang the bell once more.

* * *

Elizabeth started in her chair, forcing herself to clear away the veil of drowsiness which had beset her. "Oh, God," she murmured, stretching from her cramped position and moving away from the hearth. She brushed a bead of perspiration from her brow.

The bell clanged at the door. "What?" she whispered, crouching down into the shadows and biting her tongue to prevent herself from calling, _Will, is that you?_, very inanely, in the realization that he would not ring his own door.

Her body tingled as the blood and sensation spread throughout her limbs. She licked her lips in anticipation, hand already at her skirt. The pistol was hard and cold against her thigh. _To hell with it all. I _will _kill him._

The door creaked open. She lowered herself closer to the ground, extracting her weapon.

A figure in brocade entered the smithy, his glossy buckled shoes scuffling against the floor. He walked about the perimeter, as if in assessment. She did not catch a full glimpse of him until he reached the hearth, leaning down to pick up an object there, a sword of beautiful craftsmanship which she had failed to notice before. The pale slenderness of his hands doubly repulsed her; the crooked leer of his smile, discernible even at the distance, revolted her.

She expelled a breath through her teeth, a thin hiss, and she was overwhelmed with a feeling of utter loathing; never before had she experienced such a potent sense of abhorrence which ignited the rapid, passionate beating of her heart, and a sharp tang rose to her mouth, a metallic tang. Her eyes dilated; all she could recognize was a haze of crimson before her eyes as she stood erect, and stepping into the firelight, she angled her arm and fired.

The shot resounded through the atmosphere. She stumbled back from its effect, stars in her eyes. She was dazed, stunned for a moment, until the sounds of reality claimed her focus.

"Jesus!" the victim seethed and curses flew from his lips as he grasped at his shoulder, stemming a flow of blood with his hand. "What in bloody hell…?" Fury in his eyes, he noticed the silhouette of a woman standing off from him, smoking gun in hand.

He laughed, cynical and derisive, lunging towards her; she did not resist when he clutched her arm with his blood-soaked hand, merely looked at the man with blank horror in her eyes.

"Ah, my father informed me something like this might happen." His clench tightened upon her arm as he dragged her forward.

She let out a strangled gasp as she looked upon his face in the light—youthful though rugged, the man could not be more than thirty years of age, wisps of blonde hair falling before eyes that were grey-blue, a fine pointed nose, a crooked smile that hinted the possibility of benevolence once. A possibility that was sorely misused, giving way to ruthlessness forever.

"Elizabeth Swann, is it?" His breath was hot against her face. "The Governor's daughter. Shame that you didn't know me first, eh?"

Confusion crossed over her face, mingling with her fear.

"I was always in old James Norrington's shadow, bastard. But, as luck would have it…." His leer widened, and he reached down, his hand patting at her thighs as he searched her for other hidden firearms.

"Get off!" she yelped, wresting herself from his grasp and struck with her knee. He released her then, staggering in pain, giving her leverage to reach the door. She opened it a sliver, feeling a cold rush of night air as her fingers peeped around the wood.

"Ah!" she screeched, tears coming to her eyes as the door slammed against her hand, leaving her vulnerable as her captor slung his arm round her waist, bolting the door, and dragging her back to the heart of the smithy.

"Not so fast, Elizabeth," he breathed at her ear. Shivers rippled down her spine. "I've always wanted you to court, for my wife. Now that Father's exiled him, there is nothing to stop me."

His arm was so firm about her middle; she cringed, the tears coming hot and fluid now, and dug her nails into his skin, struggling to shove him off. "Stop, please!" she cried. "I hold nothing against you, it was a mistake. Just, please…don't—"

With a forceful thrust, she was knocked to the ground, attempting to evade him as she scuffled back, managing to lash out, though her boots did no more than bruise the skin when her object was to gouge.

As he crouched to her level, she looked up in desperation, panting, looked up at the numerous gleaming swords dangling above her. Fierce regret and utter humiliation dawned over her as she realized that she could not reach them, not now; she had had ample time to arm herself beforehand. She cried in spite of herself, her resolve breaking fast. She felt his hands on her knees, felt him sliding back the material of her skirt to touch her legs.

"Get off, leave me be!" she screeched, striking out with her foot, but he twisted the leg that struck, causing her to fall limp in agony.

"If you would cooperate, I wouldn't have to do this." His gruff voice accompanied his fouled hands as he ripped her bodice through. She writhed, screaming in protest as his fingers chafed her breasts, and she felt her soul shatter into shards.

"God! No, no, no, no…"

His hand was suddenly over her mouth and she could not speak, could not breathe, for fear of inhaling his toxic blood. "Stop and enjoy this," he jeered, running his tongue along her navel. She opened her eyes when his hands, his mouth, left her, hoping for a means of breaking away, but she was trapped by his legs. Tears blurred her vision as she watched him fumble with the belt of his breeches.

"God, unleash your wrath now!" she prayed, begging that she would die right there and then, and she let her mind take her to a place not of Earth, but someplace akin to Paradise where beaches were endless and her mother beckoned with arms wide for an embrace. A scarf blew in the faint breeze, toy ships tottered upon the cool and calm waters. She was a child again with a soft and ethereal laugh; her father called her faerie. Her friends from England, dancing and setting down to tea with sweet biscuits, wondered who they would marry when they grew up. Elizabeth answered, I want to marry a pirate, and the girls clustered around her and laughed, amused and frightened by the idea. A slashing sound pierced the air and a voice, the voice of a man, called her. She walked along the beach, a woman. She was lying on the sand, the sun was bright. She felt something heavy atop her, but the pressure disappeared, it was nothing. An angel then came before her, a beautiful face, kind and loving, such perfect features. It was the angel of William Turner, the man of her dreams, come to rescue her, to bring her to Heaven. But his face suddenly contorted; he was crying. Did angels cry?

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth! God, my Elizabeth!"

She opened her eyes, sucking in air in severe thirst of her lungs. She was hot. She looked about her, recognizing her surroundings, realizing...

"NO..." she murmured, tears burning in her eyes. A figure towered over her. She covered her face with her hands. She had not the strength to struggle. Perhaps this was death; perhaps death was a repetition of the final moments of life.

"Elizabeth. My Elizabeth, please…It's Will. Will Turner. It's your Will, it's your husband, I'm here. Come, it's all over now. He's dead. I killed him. It's all over. Elizabeth. Elizabeth…."

She heard the voice of the angel. But it was so near, so lucid. She peered from the web of her fingers, saw a face, cringed for a moment, but then recognized something familiar about the face, something gentle and loving and benevolent emanating from the figure. He was crying. Did angels cry? She drew her hands down. She was not dead. She had not been...

Her heart began to throb in violent percussion. She whimpered. "Will?"

He looked at her, looked into her face, a smile breaking through his tears. He reached a trembling hand out to her. "Elizabeth."

She sobbed, extending her hands, attempting to raise herself, but unable.

"I have you, my darling," he murmured, wrapping her in his arms and cradling her against his chest. "You're safe. Nothing will hurt you again, I promise."

She cried unreservedly, burrowing herself into his arms, breathing the scent of this angel, this messenger of God. The world could be devastated round her, but she was safe, safe. She did not care.

"Will, Will," she murmured, his name fluttering in repetitious harmony from her lips, and she began to revive to herself as he held her, his tears mingling with hers. "Will, I'm so…stupid. I didn't have a sword. Why didn't I have a sword?"

"Shh, shh, shh," he whispered against her hair. "It's done now." He held her firm, gathering the discarded cloak he had found on the ground and wrapping it about her bare shoulders. "It's done." His eyes darkened, but he did not want her to see his fear, his horror, his guilt, and so he closed his eyes and rocked her gently, oblivious to his surroundings.

* * *

Captain Jack Sparrow shook hands with the man before him. "Many thanks for getting her here safely, Mr. Gibbs."

"'Twas my honour, Captain," the grizzled man replied. The men stood on the deserted docks, surveying the grand ship in reverence.

"She ready to depart, then?"

"Aye, Captain, whenever you're ready, sir."

Sparrow nodded. "Keep her to the shallows, behind that cliff of rock," he ordered, gesturing outwards. "This will only take a moment."

Gibbs bowed slightly. "Certainly, Captain." He turned, and taking a line, climbed aboard deck. "Make ready to sail, gents!"

Jack walked with agile steps amidst the night shadows. The rain had abated, yet steady drizzles continued without any hope of letting up. He reached the door of the smithy, _W. Turner_, and looked forward to seeing the look upon Lieutenant Greys' face; looked forward to receiving Letters of Marque from the Admiral. He smiled. He could put up with it for a while, sailing as a privateer to the East India Company. Hell, he could do what he did last time…minus the cannibals. He shuddered.

He rapped on the door, thereupon realizing that it barely stood on its hinges. His mouth dropped. The wooden thing was nigh blown to smithereens. He entered.

"Ehem…Mr. Turner, it appears that your door has been…Oh, shit." He could not take a step further into the smithy. Two bodies lay upon the ground, impaled through with swords protruding from their backs. The stench of blood perfumed the air. The bodies were male; Jack noted the military garb and did not need to guess who the victims were. He glanced towards the corner of the smithy, where a couple seemed to be in an embrace. He squinted, taking one step forward.

"Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger," he muttered, only imagining the horrors that had taken place this night. He stepped towards the couple once more, and then stopped, wringing his hands. "Shit." But he needed to remove them from here, _quickly_,before they were found, tried for murder, sentenced to death, hung.

"Will," he said, tiptoeing round the lifeless bodies. "William Turner."

The boy jumped, his eyes rabid. Jack put his hands up, backed up. "Easy, son. S'just ol' Jack come to bring you an' your bonny lass to safety aboard the _Pearl_, just as I promised."

His eyes began to clear, his stiff shoulders to soften. "Jack? The _Pearl_?"

"Aye," Jack answered. "That's right. Now, up on your feet and follow me, but we must go quietly."

The boy seemed to ponder this a moment, before nodding and rising slowly though steadily to his feet, supporting the girl as he did so.

"Can…can she walk? Do you need help?" Jack asked, offering his hand, but immediately laid off when the boy lifted her into his arms, as one would lift a kitten. "All right," Jack uttered in terse response, and headed towards the door, out into the damp night, walking straight towards the docks, glancing back every so often to ensure that Will followed him.

By the time they reached the ship, by the time they came to board, standing on the deck, the boy looked ghostly, the girl looked unconscious.

"Anamaria?" he beckoned, and a young, dark-skinned woman approached him.

She smiled. "Good to have you back, Sparrow."

"Thank you, love. I am needed at the wheel. Show our guests to an open cabin below and see that they're taken care of, savvy?"

As they disappeared into the bowels of the ship, he passed a hand over his forehead, breathing a deep sigh, before setting his fingers against the _Pearl's _wheel. The misty wind felt cool upon his face. "Well, bring me that horizon."


	13. Escape: Part I

Progressing Against Propriety

A/N: I apologize for the terribly long delay! I do hope this is worth the wait.

* * *

The morning dawned frigid and grey, bearing a scent of fire-singed trees muted by rainwater. Mire filled the streets, accompanied by wayward branches and slabs of wood. Other bits of edifices littered the ground, slated as victims of the evening's onslaught. The storm ravaged and wreaked havoc. A sensation of mildewed dampness weighed heavily upon the atmosphere. Veiling all other landscapes, all other scents, all other sounds. Carnage would be nonexistent, unfound. Yet a heavily splintered door, its remnants scattered in jagged fragments about the vicinity, failed to escape notice of a man in uniform picking his way about the disarray, lantern in hand.

A muffled scream broke the silence of the dawn, shattered the veil of tranquility.

The alarms rang, the bells clanged. The town transformed into an immediate picture of bustle in naught but a moment. Shouts, rapid footsteps, raised voices.

The old wooden sign hanging above the threshold creaked and faltered. A mere footstep induced it to break from its feeble hinges. A glint of yellow lantern light revealed the carved lettering—W. Turner—before the sign succumbed to the elements, forever lost.

A note arrived at the Swann mansion, demanding urgent action. The governor donned his coat and hat, ordering a carriage to be readied immediately, bound for the smithy. The sight of armed military men surrounding the edifice gave him pause. His hope faltered. The words of the chambermaid filled his head.

_He—the Admiral—gave her 'til midnight. And then…_

And then…? What would happen—what _had _happened after midnight? The governor swallowed as he stepped out of the carriage, removing his hat as he entered the forge. He was unprepared to cross the boundary from Earth to rank hell. Yet cross it, he did, and his last fragments of hope died and a heavy realization came over him that he would never see her again. Never, his last memory a flash of mauve-blue and the feel of the letters _E.T._ crudely embroidered into a scarf. His hat—not adorned with the customary feather, but with the said scarf itself—slipped from his fingers. It sank into the mud, seeping into nonexistence as it melded with the splintery wooden sign.

"Governor Swann."

A terse voice interrupted his reverie. The governor looked into the eyes of a military man, something about his features vaguely familiar.

"I apologize for interrupting your morning, Governor, but a matter of extreme importance has come about, as you can see."

A flutter of recognition. "Cutler Beckett?"

The military man gave a slight, stiff smile and offered his hand. The governor did not take it. "It's Lord now, actually. I arrived not two days past. Order is needed in Port Royal now that James Norrington is indisposed. Not to mention…" He gestured with his hands to the havoc within the forge.

After a momentary pause, Governor Swann stepped forward and muttered, "What is the meaning of this?" Blank horror registered across his face as his eyes met with 'the matter of extreme importance.' He immediately looked away, feeling utter revulsion.

"We were hoping you could tell us, Governor."

He met Beckett's eyes. "What?"

"The meaning of this," Beckett elucidated. "This is the property of one William Turner, is it not? The man who happens to be wed to a Miss Elizabeth Swann, your daughter?"

The governor swallowed, his throat suddenly parched. "You're not suggesting that they had anything to do with this?"

Beckett smiled coldly. "I am not suggesting anything. I merely want answers. We have established that this is indeed the property of William Turner, a middle class man known to be at odds with the gentry. The likes of you and me, for example."

The governor clenched his hands. "Whatever you have to say, Lord Beckett, come out with it."

"Well," he resumed, chuckling softly. "I am sure you know what I am about to say. But perhaps not? It's only a matter of putting two and two together."

The governor fumed. "I refuse to believe it! It is inconceivable! William—my daughter—no!"

Beckett gave a deep sigh. "I feared you would react this way, Swann. You would naturally protect them. But it is your duty to tell us where they are hiding so that we can bring the deaths of Admiral and Lietenant Greys to justice."

The governor opened and closed his mouth, yet outrage came in the stead of speech.

"If you are unwilling to comply…well, a reservation for the noose can certainly be arranged."

"My daughter and son-in-law have nothing to do with this, I swear it!" he exclaimed in desperation. "You have no right to accuse them; you have no evidence! Why, this could all be a set-up by someone, some horrid person who has it in for Mr. Turner. And to even _think _that my daughter, _my _daughter is involved! Such utter—!"

"Now, now, Governor. We are only being realistic and acting accordingly." Becket shook his head and said in a hushed voice, "Who in the world would have the worst intentions in mind regarding Mr. Turner?"

Governor Swann glowered. "I can think of someone."

Beckett chuckled. "Do not make me laugh, Governor. For you will certainly not be laughing, but begging for your life once I am through with you.

"Men! We have seen enough here. We'll need to have these bodies disposed of. In the meantime, shackle the Governor and escort him to my office. He is due for questioning."

"Beckett!" Fire blazed in the governor's eyes. "This is an outrage!"

The governor was ignored as Beckett busied himself with straightening the cuffs of his sleeves. "On your way, gentlemen."

"No! I refuse! I…"

"Lord Beckett!" A new voice entered the melee.

The Lord turned, exasperation evident in his countenance. "Oh, what is it?"

A naval officer stood before them, clutching a panting and sputtering ragamuffin of a man.

"This man here," the officer said, "Confessed to a murder committed last night."

Beckett raised his brows in interest. The officer looked back. "Gents, bring in the body."

Two more men appeared, bearing a cot upon which lie the body of male, soaked and badly scraped.

"He was found in the shallows, already dead. There appears to be gunshot wounds to the head. As we were inspecting the body, this wretch…" The officer shoved the vagabond forward.  
"…was found stealing about the premises. Verbal questioning proved fruitless, but we were able to conclude that this man was responsible. His gestures verified our suspicion that he committed the murder and then threw the victim into the sea. Obviously, the body did not make it too far."

Beckett came forward. "Let me see the body, gents."

"Certainly, sir."

Beckett peered at the body up and down. "Hmmm…dark hair, average height, fairly muscular build. But what about the face?" He pushed the corpse until the face was fully revealed, though horribly marred and disfigured, the result of collision with the jagged shoreline rocks, no doubt. "Hmm, pity. Completely indiscernible. Men, bring Governor Swann forward. Now, can you identify the body?"

The governor stared down at the corpse, horrified, a myriad of morbid thoughts entering his mind. Who was this man?

"I…I am afraid…" he stammered.

"Yes?"

The governor dropped to his knees, and suddenly lowered his head in pain-stricken lamentation. "Heavens, William Turner is dead!"

A stark hush filled the atmosphere, the only sound being the governor's ragged sobs.

Beckett placed his hand on the governor's shoulder. "You are quite certain?"

The governor lifted his face, raised his hand to point to the vagabond. "You did this! You killed him!"

Beckett stepped back. "All right, gentlemen, that is quite enough. Take the bodies away, all of them." He approached the vagabond, still held firmly in the officer's grasp. "Did you come here to steal valuable weaponry, find the Admiral and Lieutenant, kill them, and then kill the witness to the murder and proprietor of this smithy, William Turner, so that your crimes would never be found out? Did you then haul Turner's body to the sea in the hope that his corpse would not be found; that the murder of the Admiral and Lieutenant would be blamed on Turner and that you would be let off? Well?"

The vagabond, fear in his eyes, began to blather insensibly, wincing and shuffling his feet as he did so.

"A foreigner. I can't say that I'm surprised. Lock him up. He'll hang by sunrise tomorrow. Release Swann."

A procession began of clearing the smithy of the bodies, ridding the visible evidence of carnage in a heinous murder plot.

Finally, there were only two men left standing there. Beckett clapped Swann on the back.

"Governor, I apologize profusely for all of this…For my lack of understanding, and jumping to conclusions which had no bearing."

The Governor failed to speak, merely covered his face with his hands.

"We will accommodate you, whatever you need. We will compensate you for the anguish you have suffered. Just say the amount."

The governor looked up. "I don't want compensation!" he spat.

Beckett looked at him in surprise.

"My daughter and her happiness are the only things I could want in this world. Without that…there is nothing left for me."

Beckett lifted his hand, as if in defeat, and then surveyed the governor carefully, as if searching for the right words to say. "Governor, where is your daughter?"

The governor fixed him with a steely glare; clearly, those were the wrong words. "I can only hope that she succumbed to a more benign fate than my son-in-law. Perhaps she managed to escape the clutches of evil." He continued to stare at Beckett, fierce agony and accusation in his eyes, daring him to say one word more. Beckett lowered his head, slipped out of the smithy, leaving the governor alone. Completely and unutterably alone.

Swann stepped into the heart of the smithy, touched a glimmering sword hanging overhead. "Please do not let it be true," he whispered. "You have escaped, the both of you. _You have escaped_."

* * *

The grey-blue sea rippled calmly, exhausted after the prior evening's rocking and raging. A soft mist created perpetual dampness, yet the air was fresh and bright with the pale sky. A ship loomed in the distance. A vast ship, whose once rippling black sails foretold the tale of a Sea Captain so nefarious that even hell had no place for him. The ship's sails were now new and white, and no flag embossed with skull-and-crossbones marked it as a vessel for pirates. Perhaps it was guise, though nothing could conceal that this ship was the fastest in the Caribbean. Only one ship bore that honour—_The Black Pearl_.

The Captain stood at the wheel, rocking with the movement of the ship. He was adorned in vesture that could withstand every type of weather. He drew his hand over his eyes in a gesture of tiredness, or perhaps to brush perspiration from his brow. His shoulders were tense, his gaze intent upon the horizon.

"Shall I relieve you, Cap'n?" a gruff voice broke the Captain from his state of concentration.

"Gibbs."

The sailor understood the question before it was asked. "They've been taken care of, sir. Both asleep and bandaged and under the watch of Anamaria. That Turner—he's a tough 'un. Not so much a whelp no more. He'll pull through."

The Captain cleared his throat. "And what about the girl?"

"Well…."

The Captain turned to look him in the eye.

"She's had a rough time of it," Gibbs continued cautiously.

The Captain's voice was hoarse as he muttered, "Alive?"

"Aye, aye, alive. Sure enough."

The corner of the Captain's mouth twitched.

"Let me relieve you, Cap'n. Due North?"

"Due any speck of land as far away as possible from the likes of Port Royal," he growled in response before disappearing below deck with a swish of his coat.

* * *

The spare cabin of the ship, reserved for guests aboard the vessel, was cool and quiet. A single candle, nigh burned down, cast a yellow glow upon the walls. A figure in the room rose to part the maroon curtains slightly, allowing a sliver of grey morning light to shine through the windows. A knock sounded at the door, and the figure went to answer it.

"Anamaria."

"Jack," she responded with a nod, allowing him entrance into the sick chamber. His eyes were heavy as he glanced about. Two beds, two still bodies. Anamaria drew him to the side with a whisper. "They've not woken at all."

He gestured towards the bed on the left. "She?"

"Sprained leg, bruised ribs, shocked nerves."

"But the blood?" he questioned, recalling the girl's state upon finding her in the arms of the boy.

"Not hers, that's nothing to worry about," Anamaria answered twisted her hands.

Jack took her shoulders. "What is it?"

"There is something else."

"What?"

"I think…she may be with child."

Jack's eyes widened. "You are sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, Jack," she rejoined. "My years as a nurse afore I joined your crew count for something."

Jack dropped his hands. He stepped towards the bed, eying the sleeping figure uncertainly. "And is the…the baby…all right?"

Anamaria's eyes darkened. "Time will tell. She can't be more 'n a month along."

"Will there be…signs?"

The lady pirate sighed. "If she were hurt badly enough, the baby could be damaged. She could lose it."

Jack groaned. "Pray to heaven that not be the case. She'll make it, eh? They'll both make it?"

Anamaria gave a small, curious smile. "Seems that you really care for the whelp an' his bonny lass."

Jack returned the smile. "Shut it."

A soft groan interrupted them. They turned toward the sound. The boy stirred. Jack and Anamaria looked at one another, and then both approached the bed. Anamaria laid a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Will, are you all right? Can you hear me?"

He stirred slightly, no more. When she tapped him, he shied away, burrowing into the sheet and pillow.

Jack seemed to be sizing up the situation. "So he's awake, then?"

Anamaria graced him with a glare, and he stepped back, pretending to be interested with something on the floor in the corner.

"Will, come now. 'S'all right. Yer safe and alive and yer away from that bloody place."

After several minutes thus yielding no results, Anamaria stepped back, folding her arms. "Suppose we best let him alone."

"What about the bonny lass?"

"Elizabeth? I don't expect she'll stir for a while yet."

They passed both beds, heading for the door. Jack touched one of the footboards. "Lizzie, don't die on the whelp now, savvy?"

Anamaria all but shoved him out the door. "Mind what ye say, Sparrow! Now, out with you. Elizabeth will pull through, mark me on that."

"Elizabeth..." The voice was faint, groggy.

They poked their heads back through the door.

"Will?" Anamaria questioned.

"He's comin' to!" Jack said eagerly, bounding into the room before her.

Anamaria tugged him back with a grimace. "Let me see to him. Will, lad." She tapped him again, and his eyes fluttered open, blinking in the brightness. He coughed, moving about.

"Where is she?" he managed, his voice rough and dry and raw.

"Will, ye bloody whelp! An' I thought I'd left ye as limp as a beached codfish."

"Shut it, Jack."

The boy rose himself upon his elbows with a heavy groan. "Where is she?"

"Will, Will…" Anamaria knelt down before him, passing her hand before his eyes. "Can ye see me? Do ye know where ye are?"

He looked up, squinting, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. "Anamaria?"

Relief passed over her features, and she pressed her hand to his forehead. "Aye. 'Least yer brain's not addled. An' no fever to boot."

The pirates watched him warily as his eyes searched about the room in confusion. "Where is she?" he asked again, helpless.

Anamaria bit her lip, and moved aside so that he could have a view to the adjacent bed. "Right there, Will, there's no need to worry. But she hasn't woken yet…."

With a jolt, Will lifted himself from the bed, his legs staggering so that he fell onto his knees, and resisting restraining hands, he crawled to the other bed, panting and grasping the sheet, peering anxiously into the face that rested upon the pillow. "Elizabeth!" he rasped, and his head fell softly upon her shoulder, his breaths ragged against her neck.

Anamaria reached out a hand to pull him away, but Jack grabbed the offending hand and pulled her to her feet instead. He raised his brows, and muttered, "Best let them be, eh? They need each other more 'n we know."

With a last glance—the unmoving girl laying upon the bed, the boy huddled on the floor at her side—she conceded, and the two left the room.

* * *

She heard sounds, yet they were fuzzy. She felt soft pressures, hard pressures, painful. She felt as if she could open her eyes, but she did not want to, not if it caused the pain to continue. She attempted to drift back into oblivion.

_"Elizabeth…"_

She heard it this time. She felt soft air, like breaths, upon her skin, and heard a tremulous sound.

"Elizabeth…"

Her eyes fluttered open, and she blinked, looking feverishly about her surroundings. She grew fearful, not knowing where she was, realizing that there was a figure crouched near her. She tried to recoil, but the simple movement induced a burst of pain through her body. She let out a soft cry. The crouched figure turned, and she could see his face. It was the face of an angel. She thought so, but did angels cry?

"Elizabeth!"

As the angel spoke, a thousand recollections filled her mind. "Will?" she whimpered feebly.

The angel smiled and gently pulled her into his arms. Another burst of pain cascaded through her body, but she did not heed it as her hands went around his neck and their tears mingled, and she smiled through her tears as he kissed her face.


	14. Escape: Part II

Progressing Against Propriety

* * *

The dim ship cabin enlivened with faint stirrings of light. Tranquility descended like a veil upon the room, imbued gradually with life from lovers' breaths.

Their eyes met; words evaded them with each passing moment. Thrown into oblivion, they held awareness for naught but themselves. Only as his gaze lowered, his head dropping to her shoulder with a deep sigh, did her eyes wander, uncertain in their movement. Her quivering fingers rested amidst his curling locks. She looked down upon him, his forehead against her neck, his half-closed eyes—crouched still, his fingers grasping the coverlet. Her brows furrowed, her heart pattered. She wanted him close to her; she wanted him to hold her. From whence did he come? Had it all been part of a nightmare, and was it yet over?

Her fingers came to brush against his neck, and she parted her lips in a whisper. "It's you."

He raised his head and looked at her. She searched his eyes, finding pain there.

"Oh, Elizabeth," he murmured, his voice as low and hoarse as hers. "Yes."

A pause fell between them before she lifted her hand. "Come here; hold me."

He parted his lips, glancing down over the sheet which covered her, and then to her face.

"What?" she asked, anxiety causing her heart to throb. "Why?"

"I…can't."

Her eyes grew wide, and she watched as he drew his hand to the sheet, folding it back. He winced as he did so.

Her breath quickened, and she looked down with a gasp. The neck of the tunic she donned was loose and open, revealing skin that was mottled. Cautiously, she drew her hand down; drawing it back again, she realized the length of her ribcage was sticky and redolent with salve. A flicker of nervousness shone in her eyes as she touched the area and drew a sharp intake of breath, which she instantly regretted. Tears sprung anew into her eyes.

"God—it hurts," she whimpered. "It hurts when I—I can't breath."

"Hush, hush, love. You need to rest for a while. You need to—No, no—relax. You need to breathe," he assured her, the pain intensified in his countenance as his eyes darted from the affected area to her face.

Her breaths came quick and shallow. "Will, I can't—I can't—"

Agony contorted his features as he took her hand and pressed his lips to it. "I'm so sorry. I'm so…" He reached out a hand toward her, but drew it back in a tight clench.

"You can't touch me?" she shrieked, disbelieving.

He turned his face away, running his hands through his hair, saying nothing in response; he could not look at her. Not look at that tortured face, not bear to witness the pain and brokenness, the body too tender to touch.

"What's wrong with my leg?" he heard her whimper. He turned back, questioning.

"What's wrong?" she repeated softly. "Let me…" she reached her hand out as if to yank the coverlet away—he executed the action in her stead. Cloths caked in plaster swathed the leg, below the knee to mid-foot.

She moaned, pinching at the sheet, not wanting to look at it anymore; if she didn't see it, perhaps it would go away, the plaster and the bruises and the pain. And—Oh, God—if only she could breathe! She couldn't move, she couldn't touch—he wouldn't touch her. She covered her eyes with her hands.

"Don't cry…please. I can't look at you if…"

She felt him gently move her hands away.

"But I have to look at you," he murmured vehemently. He was breathing heavily; she felt his breath hot against her face. She surrendered, too weak, her wrists in his hands.

"What's happening to me? What have we done?" she mouthed, her voice barely a whisper.

He stared at her, his features grim. "Not you. It's what I've done. I…" He dropped his hands, suddenly rising to his feet, his legs quavering as he stepped back from the bed. "It's…my…fault." His voiced cracked and he rubbed his neck in a fierce gesture of frustration.

Heat flooded her face and she writhed, yearning to move despite the pain. "No, no!" she resisted, her voice louder and ringing in the room that was so still and solemn—"No!" she hissed, pushing herself up on her elbows and shifting her legs. She bit her lips—but the leg did not hurt; it was insensate; only her lungs, her heart, everything else burned in an all-consuming fire. She extended her hand, irritated, barely balanced as she reached out to him.

"Will—you saved me. Don't _dare _to say it's your fault!"

He spun around, meeting her eyes which burned with a passion for a brief moment before rushing to her—enveloping her in his arms before she dropped and shattered into a million pieces her broken self_-his _fault. His doing.

"Don't do this," he cried. "You're too much hurt. Eliz—…"

She sobbed loudly into his shirt, clinging to him. He looked down at her, tentatively securing his arms around her, edging her closer lest she fall. Her legs were draped across his lap; he attempted to move her, gently. She needed to lie down, she needed to heal—did she not understand that? If not for his sake, than for hers. Please, for her own sake. She could blame him; she _would _blame him, but please—the sight of her like this, his guilt. He could not bear it.

"Don't let me go," her lips moved against his skin. He felt her fingers tighten, her lips moving inaudibly. The quaver which rippled through her form and the sudden slackness of her grasp caused his heart to lurch. He pressed his lips against her forehead and cushioned her against his chest as he shifted till his back rested against the headboard. She looked at him with damp, desperate eyes.

"Don't worry," he murmured, helping her to lean against him till she was still.

The lines of anguish abated from her face and her breaths evened after a lapse. His gaze softened as her eyes closed and her body was lax and limp—small, delicate. His chest constricted.

"I can't let you go. Not anymore," he vowed. His face darkened in shadow. _Not after I did this._

* * *

A tinge of grey-blue deepened to charcoal upon the horizon. Captain Sparrow strolled about the deck, nodding to the crew, and reached Gibbs at the wheel.

"Expect a tempest tonight, gents."

"Aye, Cap'n," Gibbs responded. "Somethin' fierce looks a brewin'. 'T'will put a wrench in our plans."

"Not exactly, mate," Sparrow responded, coming to stand next to his old friend. "See, inclement weather may only hinder the _Pearl_, but it will utterly halt any plans of sea excursion for those not in our company."

Gibbs raised a grizzled eyebrow. "Leverage?"

"Aye, leverage," he nodded with a slight grin.

"Eh, Sparrow!" a voice beckoned.

The Captain reached into the deep pockets of his coat, searching for something. His eyes lighted and he extracted his compass. "Ah—always comes back to the right hands," he said, before tossing it to Gibbs. "Stay on course, right through the heart of the storm if need be." He tapped the wheel. "She can take it. Someone will relieve you come dusk."

"Aye, Sir."

* * *

Sparrow turned, hands in his pockets. Stepping down into the galley, he was led to the voice that beckoned. "Anamaria?"

She was turned away from him, a bottle to her lips. He approached it, snatching it from her hands.

"Sparrow!" she exclaimed, attempting to take it back.

"Indulging, are we? And you did not feel the need to invite me to partake on this indulgence?"

She frowned slightly, grabbing the bottle and setting it onto the table after taking another swig. "Decidedly not. I've some news."

"About your escapades into my rum stash?"

"Mine, not yours," she quipped, passing him.

"Must be about our invalids, then," he rejoined, taking a drink in turn. "Not worse?"

She faced him. "Depends. The lass has realized the extent of her injuries. The lad—'bout the same. Seems to be…" She clasped her hands. "…helping her."

He lowered the bottled slowly. "Will ye tell them?"

She sighed, lowering her gaze. "When the time is right."

He stepped towards her, placing a hand on her arm. "Ye'll wait a bit yet."

She lifted her eyes to meet his. "Why raise their hopes if it comes to naught?"

He dropped his hand and walked in a circle around the wooden table in the centre of the room. "True, love. A sad shame 't'would be. How long, then?"

She folded her arms. "A fortnight per'aps; a mite longer. Once she walks again." A flash of raw emotion shone in her eyes of a sudden. "But—what they 'ave suffered! 'Tis enough; 'tis overly much. Of all the specks of happiness in this world—"

"Captain Jack Sparrow is not the appropriate audience for topics of happiness. Luck, per'aps." He shrugged his shoulders, and tipped his hat to her in a parting gesture. "Young Mr. Turner."

"What?" she questioned.

"The appropriate audience," he answered before leaving her alone.

She kept her gaze upon the stairs, where his footsteps had faded, lost in thought. "Luck," she finally spat, sarcastic, and returned to her bottle of liquor. "Only way luck could work its charm is if an unsuspecting innocent were blamed for their crimes." She emitted a harsh laugh. "Aye, if only."

* * *

Unbeknownst to the crew of the _Black Pearl_, a funeral service was in the process of arrangement upon the shores of Port Royal. A funeral for the town's blacksmith, a funeral for the governor's daughter. A foreigner hung lifeless from a noose, convicted of thrice-executed murder.

Stricken by grief, the town's governor was incapable of performing his duties. For a week, for a month, perhaps forevermore. A man named Lord Beckett pressed his fingertips together in anticipation of this downfall, tasting victory as the rule of Port Royal came into his hands, and his hands alone. Play nice, practice patience, and then pounce.

Propriety was cracked and broken, the balance of life disturbed. Was it progress, the inevitable crumbling of the long-established society which had sustained the town for decades? Or was it ruin?

Such items of contemplation were beyond reach for an aged man who wandered along the beach, staring at twin gravestones—an unidentified body and empty, cavernous earth underneath.

* * *

A/N: A short one. Emotional mire to get through. Too much of that at once, and you're a mess. The next chapters promise to be longer and more exciting. I want to thank my loyal readers and leave a question to ponder: Have the events thus far truly led to a progression against propriety? This is mostly a rhetorical question to think about through the end of the story. Thanks for reading!


	15. Escape: Part III

Progressing Against Propriety

* * *

Rays of sunlight punctured through white clouds, adding certain lustre to the patches of damp brine pooling at the prow of a ship docked along a secluded shoreline. Footsteps against the wood of the ship's deck emitted a soft creak. Booted footsteps, solitary, until the ballooning canvas of a sail deflated to reveal a figure who stepped into the sun.

"Rain's run dry, eh Cap'n?"

The figure turned with a grin before lifting the spyglass he held to his eye. "Aye, pleasant sailing thence forth." He closed the spyglass with a _snap_, pocketing it within his coat. "I say we gather provisions and be off afore sunrise. Now, step to!"

The crew went off in a bustle, securing the mooring line, buffeting off from the deck on swinging ropes, swords in hand. Intent on presenting a menacing aura to the natives of that small, secluded isle, a greater part of the crew failed in this. A stout pirate called Pintel, accompanied by his bony, awkward comrade, bumbled about, chattering, slashing at trees which bore mango fruit. The rest of the group fared not much better, and had to be set to business by the domineering air of Anamaria—a cutthroat, and a woman at that.

* * *

Below deck, the strong sun streamed in full force through the circular, grime-encrusted port windows. A cabin door was opened, the cabin itself scoured clean (an irregularity, compared with the other inhabitable areas of the vessel) and smelling of herbs and lemon. Empty pitchers stood in the corner, the old boiled water used for cleansing poured out. A chair stood in the corner as well; upon it, a woman. To her left, a man stood, peering through the window.

"Ah…" The woman placed her hands upon the arms of the chair and rose. The man came to her side in an instant, placing a hand at her back.

"Are you all right?" he asked, concern in his gaze.

She gave him a slight smile, taking a step. "Yes, I can walk perfectly well, Will."

He relaxed, though kept a hand pressed to her spine as she walked forward to the door. The pressure alleviated the fading soreness of her ribs, bringing ease to her breathing.

"Ah," she murmured, tilting her head back and shifting her shoulders.

A smile graced his taut features. How well she looked now, so much improved from three weeks past—unable to move, shot with pain in each breath she expelled. Now she looked...as herself. Her eyes brighter, alert yet calm. The shock to her nerves seemed nigh abated, nigh abated. Though of a sudden, her eyes would widen and her face whiten; her hands clench and her skin rise in bumps at an abrupt movement or sound. Guilt consumed him then, and he could hardly stand to look at her for the memories those fearful expressions induced. _Because of me, because of me_, he would think as images filled his head. Not clear images—just dark sensations of anger, dirt, and blood. And her screams. Her screams haunted him. When she looked that way, with her nerves unsettled, he could not look at her. For in looking at her, all he could see were those dark sensations. And a moment later, when her countenance cleared and her nerves calmed, she spoke and touched him. But he had to leave the room, for minutes or hours, pacing the bowels of the ship. Sometimes alone in the darkness, sometimes encountering a crew member whom he could easily run away from. But sometimes it was Jack he encountered, who did not let him run away. It was Jack who cajoled him into unwanted conversation, offering him a swig of rum, which, more often than not, he accepted, if only to dim the images in his mind.

'_What in good Mary's name happened back there, Will?'_ Jack would ask. Will remained evasive, unsure himself. Unsure of all except that he was responsible for something horrifying and unspeakable, and he would have to pay the repercussions—sooner or later.

'_This is my fault, all of it.'_ Incessant pacing, running his hands through his mussed hair.

'_What do ye mean, mate?'_ Jack encouraging Will to go on, as if he didn't know. Something in Jack's voice implied that he _knew_; that he was aware of more than he was letting on. Why was he torturing him like this?

'_I would have been responsible for Elizabeth's death…had she died. I managed to save her when she was in the clutches of pirates; I nearly killed her when…'_

'_When she was under the influence of upper-crust society?' _Jack would scoff; Will did not find it quite so humorous. Then Jack studied him with grave eyes, offering him another drink. _'There's no crime in it, William. Now and again the bad turn out to be good, the rogues of society outshine the elite.'_

The statement caused him to raise his eyes, to halt his pacing. Jack leaned against something—an archway, a table, a barrel—as he spoke. _'She were never in safe hands with the likes of them.' _He raised a bottle to Will. _'T'was you she was safe with, aye?' _Nodding his head in self-agreement. _'Would she have died without you? No need to answer that one because she is NOT_ _dead, and not being dead is a direct result of your being there to save her, savvy?'_

He would have stopped pacing, his head spinning less. _'All right.'_

'_So see to your lady-love and stow the guilt. 'T'is bloody self-righteous. Be a pirate for Davy Jones' sake and none of this martyr twaddle! S'nuff to drive one to insanity! Bugger it all…'_

"Will, I want to go up to the deck. Are you coming?" Her voice broke his ruminations.

"Yes, of course," he answered as they exited the cabin. Yes, she looked well, the attack of the nerves seemingly passed. His guilt had lessened; he could look at her, touch her, smile at her even. But then they had not spoken of it. Perhaps it was better off that way. Never mind the repercussions—at least, for the time being.

They rose to the deck, the sun shining full upon her face. "I do feel so much better," she said. They came to stand by the railing, looking out at the island. He touched her hand, causing her to turn her head towards him. There was a sparkle in her eye, a hint of a smile on her pink lips.

"You look wonderful," he murmured, succumbing to the urge to brush his hand against her neck as he met her lips in a kiss. A quick intake of breath transformed into a sigh and it was she who deepened the kiss, sliding her hands to his shoulders to embrace him. Closer. Her thigh touched his own. He moaned, weaving his hand over her back, lower, his fingers grazing her hip, slipping beneath the band of the loose breeches she wore.

"Will…"

He stopped with haste, feeling heated. "I...I shouldn't…I'm…"

She kissed him, swallowing his words, and then looked at him with starry eyes. "I've missed this." She leant forward to whisper into his ear. "Anamaria promised to draw a bath for me today. Wash this…" She gestured to her torso. "…stuff off. Perhaps you could join me."

He just swallowed, answering, "Elizabeth…," before the words stuck in his throat.

"Ah, you're fit to see the light of day, are you? Superb!"

They turned to see the Captain of the vessel meandering towards them.

"Jack," Will nodded.

The Captain smiled before turning to Elizabeth, regarding her with warmth in his eyes. "You are faring quite well."

She smiled. "Anamaria has done wonders. I…" She turned back to take Will's hand. "We can't thank you enough. For sheltering us on your ship."

Jack waved his hand. "Who said anything about sheltering? I've slated you as captives since the Isle de Muerta."

Elizabeth touched his arm as he turned to walk away. "Either way. Thank you."

He smiled, tipping his hat. "My pleasure. And congratulations to you. Must be proud, eh?"

Will furrowed his brow. "Congratulations? For what?"

"Oh…" Jack responded, a tad too loud, and muttered, "Bugger" under his breath. "Naught in particular. Your wellbeing, eh?" He scurried off before they had a chance to question him further.

"He's not telling the truth," Elizabeth noted, her eyebrows raised.

"No," Will replied, staring after him. "And I intend to discover why."

She leaned into his side, her hand on his chest as he wrapped an arm about her. "It must be good, or why the congratulations?"

He met her eyes, and pressed his lips to her forehead. "I suppose you're right."

She tapped his chest. "Don't bother him about it. It'll be a surprise."

He looked into her beaming face. "If that's what you want. But I myself am not too keen on Captain Sparrow's surprises. Springing on us that we're captives of the Pearl…"

His words and her accompanying laughter faded as they descended into the bowels of the ship. This time he was not alone, but with she whom he loved.

* * *

The hours of mid-afternoon before dusk brought the sun to a peak in the sky. The lazy hours, warm and resplendent. The beach looked calm and inviting, if not for the horde occupying it, armed with supplies—necessities of food and drink, and other supplemental items pillaged. The inhabitants of the island were scarce and proved accommodating, curious about the strange foreigners to their land. They pointed to the pirates' various trinkets, willing to trade food or anything else for them. Ragetti, Pintel's right-hand man, admitted to feeling a bit put-out in that the raid on the island was not a raid at all, but a mere case of riskless bartering. He earned a whack on the heard from Pintel and lost his false eye as a result, this occupying his time before the crew was due to board the ship.

In the guest (or captive) cabin, Elizabeth reclined her leg. The sprain had healed neatly, but the muscles were stiff, the bones crackling each time she moved. She grimaced. "That sounds horrid."

Will dropped to his knees before, placing his hands on her leg. He eased his fingers up to her knee, kneading with care. He delivered pressure so that she bent her knee. He heard her gasp, and he lifted his eyes, worried he had hurt her. No, there was not pain in her eyes. There was something else, something much different. He breathed against her skin, curling his hand about the knee, keeping his eyes locked with hers. His lips grazed her skin, his hands travelling up and down her leg now. Her eyes were closed; there was an indefinable expression on her face, something far different than pain. He looked at her figure, lingering on the band of her breeches. He moved his hand beyond her knee, to her thigh—the material hindered him. Of a sudden he wanted to—no, no. But yes—he had a strong impulse to rip the pants from her, to feel her skin beneath his hands. The impulse stirred in his mind, and he reached forward, the ribbon that held the breeches at her waist inches from his fingers—

A knock sounded at the door. At once, he drew back, resting his forehead against her knee before moving away, and she snapped her head up, opening her eyes with a harsh expelled breath.

"How are my patients?" Anamaria's voice carried through the room, and the woman herself entered, bearing a large basin in her arms.

"Not very patient," Elizabeth muttered to herself, though the comment reached Will's ears. He met her eyes with a grin.

"All right, move out of the way," Anamaria ordered as she reached the centre of the cabin, where a tub had been placed. The basin she carried was brimful with hot water. As she poured the water into the tub, steam rose into the air.

"Thank you for your trouble, Anamaria," Elizabeth murmured, warmth in her tone.

"Not a bit," she answered. "I'll just fetch ye some cloths and soap, then I'll leave ye to it."

"My, where do you come into these luxuries?" Elizabeth pondered.

Anamaria turned to her with a smile and a shrug. "A pirate's life."

In a moment, she returned with the said items. She strode to the door, exited, but paused before she closed it. "Easy, all right?"

Elizabeth looked at her. "Of course."

Anamaria nodded (and was there also a wink?) before securing the door behind her.

Will and Elizabeth looked at each other in a brief moment of silence. She reached down and tugged at the ribbon at her waist. He cleared his throat and turned away, folding one arm over his chest, the other hand pressed to his lips. He heard a rustle of garments, a soft chuckle, and then a huff of impatience.

"Will, please…"

"Oh," he replied, coming to her side, taking the end of her shirt as she lifted her arms and he raised the garment of her head. "How inconsiderate of me." Gentle, he placed his hands on either side of her ribs, a veil of compassion-laden sadness coming over his eyes. "You're still hurt." His thumb traced the faint mauve outline of a bruise. Her heart began to patter; how sad he looked—that expression in his gaze…she had seen it before.

"I'm all right," she reassured him, her voice quiet. "I only wish I knew how it happened."

He cleared his throat. A flicker of darkness passed over his face but was gone again before she could fully detect it. "That doesn't matter. Now, here." He moved behind her, holding her arms to support her. "Careful," he muttered as she stepped into the water and immersed her body, emitting a grateful sigh, letting herself go lax, the warmth seeping into her.

He looked at her for a moment before retrieving a cloth and a pungent block of soap. Her eyes were closed as he dipped the cloth into the water, lathered it, drew it across her shoulders. She leant forward a bit as he massaged her back, her arms. She opened her eyes when he stopped, looking at him in enquiry. He was staring at her ribs, as if frozen. She raised her hand from the water and touched his wrist; he startled.

"It's all right, Will. I'm not going to break."

There it was, that expression again—it pained her, it irritated her. Why must he move her so? The poignancy overwhelmed her. "Get in," she blurted. The compassion in his eyes turned to surprise.

"What?"

"Get. In," she enunciated, scooting forward, bending her knees.

"No, I don't think…"

She uttered a sound of exasperation. "You _will _get in with me, William."

The sound of her voice, her choice of words, gave him pause. It was reminiscent of the times when she wanted something, her mind made up with no option of relenting. He cleared his throat, giving into her demand despite his reluctance. He divested himself of his clothing in seconds, and then stood there, uncertain.

"Well?"

At her voice, he stepped in, situating his legs on either side of her. Straight away, she leant back against him. An involuntary grunt escaped him.

"This is better," she said, and reached for one of the empty pitchers. She filled it, and then poured the water over her head to wet her hair, and in so doing, wet his chest. She then reached for the soap, but he took it from her. Lathering his hands thoroughly, he ran his fingers through her locks.

"Mmm," she murmured. "Much better."

"Is that fact or opinion?" he mumbled.

"You decide," she answered.

He was silent, weaving his fingers along her scalp, and once done, touched her shoulders before dropping his hands. "Finished."

"No," she countered, taking his hands and bringing them to her front. "Not finished yet."

There was an interlude of silence; his hands came to rest on her breasts.

"Elizabeth, this is…"

"Touch me, Will," she interrupted. Her voice was faint and pleading. He stiffened. "Please…the way you've been looking at me—I can't stand it. Just—let all of that go."

She was panting slightly, the pleading quality of her voice heightened. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted full back onto his shoulder.

He touched her; at first, his touch light. His callous-roughened fingertips grazed her skin, and she arched forward at the contact. The movement of his fingers was slow, kneading, soft pressure, lower. Her sighs emboldened him—he traced his lips across her neck, her earlobe, pushing her back against him, needing to feel her closer. He grazed his teeth on her shoulder, kissed it, his hands roving, lacing her abdomen, feeling her hips, lower, lower, and—

"Oh, yes," she gasped, her voice echoing and resonant, keeping his hands in place as he attempted to move them back to safer domain. She sighed, breathing heavy, her lungs working harder, feeling the strain from her healing ribcage, but she did not care, not when—

A guttural sound erupted in his throat, causing her to turn her head abruptly, and he kissed her on the mouth. He kissed her hard, tasting her, moaning against her lips as his passion unleashed itself in a single moment. There was a splatter of water, water seeping from the tub onto the floor, and before he knew, she was facing him, flush against his chest. His eyes locked with hers as he buried his hands through her hair to pull her closer—not enough, he needed more of her taste. She emanated the heady scent of rose and something exotic, and as his fingers moved, he tore his lips from hers to favour her contours.

"Oh God, Will," she muttered, clenching his shoulders.

He lifted to look at her, capturing her lips once more. Fervour lighted in his eyes "They will _never _touch you again."

In the midst of his caresses, her heart seemed to stop, and she pulled back, panting. "What?"

He cupped her chin in his hands, saying nothing, kissing her. His hands slid against her thighs. So close, so close—

A sharp cry fled her lips as she was assaulted with a vivid memory. Eyes piercing blue, crooked, a fumbling buckle, the wrench of her leg, the hardness of the ground as her body slammed against it.

"Elizabeth…Elizabeth, it's all right, my love."

She cried softly into the crook of his neck. He held her close, his eyes dark. _Why did I say anything? She did not need to know. My fault…_

"I'm sorry," he breathed.

"No, no." She lifted her head, blinking her tears away, and kissed him. There was hardness, coldness in her eyes. "He should be sorry. He—he—"

"Don't," he shook his head, drawing his thumbs across her cheeks. "You needn't worry about it anymore. Please don't." The gaze—the sad compassion—overcame the fervour of his countenance. "It's all over now."

She sat up, her fingernails faintly scratching his abdomen. "Over? The bastard deserves to die."

Without warning, he stood, stepped out of the tub, ran a hand through his hair.

"Will—"

"I killed him."

Slow in her movements, she stood, water dripping from her body. "What?"

"I killed him." He turned back to her, his eyes travelling the length of her body. He stepped closer and touched her waist. "I killed him, and now…"

She bit her lip, bringing her hand to his cheek. "Now he can't hurt us anymore," she said, her voice soft.

His eyes were anxious, searching. Searching for admonition, approval? "But…"

She stepped into the shelter of his arms. "Thank God for you." She lifted her face. Her angel was crying. She flicked the tear away and said, "I don't want to think. Only you. Only…"

He kissed her, lifted her into his arms, mumbling nothing but her name into her skin.

* * *

When dusk had fallen and the moon began its steady ascent into the sky, all was calm and quiet, the island unruffled as if none had disturbed it. The lines were cut and the ship floated lazily in the shallows, sails not yet raised.

Anamaria swung onto the deck, looking about her and found him, standing idly by the wheel. She sighed and strode over to him. "Shilling for yer thoughts?"

His eyes were drawn down, running his fingers along the wheel absently as he emitted a soft chuckle.

"Where to now, Captain?"

He turned to her, a tad unsteady, his eyes large. "I really haven't the foggiest idea, love."

She raised her brows, looking cross. "Jack Sparrow doesn't know what he wants? That's novel."

He grinned and reached out, drawing a finger along her jaw. "Anyone ever told ye how lovely ye look in the moonlight?"

She delivered a slap to his cheek that momentarily stunned him. "Keep yer hands to yerself, ye bleedin' sot!"

Staggered, he put his hand to his face, calling after her (whimpering, more like) as she stomped away. "Where off to, love?

"Drink some water and make ready to set sail, Captain!" she answered, a scathing edge to her voice as she disappeared below deck.

Left alone, he stared at the moon. "Bugger." He slumped down, sighing deeply, and a small smile formed on his lips. "What say you to Tortuga, gents?"

* * *

Anamaria stepped with care about the dark passages of the ship, balancing a tray in her hands. She came to a door emanating sultry, golden light; knocked and entered to a faint, "Come in."

Into the cabin she stepped. Candles created passing shadows. "Evening," she greeted. "How was your bath?"

Elizabeth—seated in the corner chair, cleansed and perfumed, her damp hair swept up and loose strands curling about her ears—smiled, and answered, "Just what I needed."

Anamaria set the tray on the end of one of the beds. "Good. I've brought you some supper. Where's the whelp?"

Elizabeth arched a brow at the woman's jargon; she sounded much like someone else. "He's…"

At that moment, the door creaked open; the man in question entered the room. "Eliz—Oh, Anamaria." He smiled warmly, crossing the room. "You've been terribly good to us. If not for you—"

She waved a hand at him. "This is Jack's doing—_his_ ship."

Will chuckled, moving to step behind the chair, placing his hands upon Elizabeth's shoulders. "You don't expect me to believe that? His honourable deeds have their limit."

Anamaria crossed her arms, regarding him with a curious air. "All right, then. Jack doesn't know what he wants; he's keeping you aboard his ship to use as leverage, if need be."

Will's eyes widened; Elizabeth glanced up at him. "You know this?"

Anamaria shrugged. "This is how he operates."

Will furrowed his brows, wanting her to reveal more. "How would he use us as leverage? I am completely unwilling to—"

Anamaria laughed, startling them both. "I wouldn't get ahead of ourselves just yet. Jack's plans are half-baked, at that. Oft times they've been thrown out, not yet in the oven." She paused, and then looked up at them, a new spark in her eyes as she started up again. "But I've not come to speak of Jack's inadequacies." She sat down on the adjacent bed, smiling. "I've some news."

Elizabeth leant forward. "Will it be cause for congratulations?"

"Well, I certainly hope so!"

A glimmer of excitement came into Elizabeth's eyes; Will looked cautious. "What is it?" he asked.

Anamaria turned to her. "Elizabeth, in the midst of tending to you, I discovered another…condition that you're not yet aware of."

Will's hand tightened on his wife's shoulder. "Is it harmful?"

"No. No, I think not…"

Elizabeth brushed away his hand in impatience. "Heavens, Will—let the woman finish."

"Mr. and Mrs. Turner," she resumed, and paused for a moment, the momentary silence agonizing with the anticipation that hung in the air. "You are expecting a child, to be born within eight months' time."

Elizabeth let out a shriek, her hands flying to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. Will stood agape, staggering across the room, pinching the bridge of his nose, staring at Anamaria in disbelief.

"Will!" Elizabeth called, her face bright with smiles, and beckoned to him with an outstretched hand.

He gazed at her, taking a step forward, falling to his knees, crawling to her. He put his hands upon her stomach, touching, feeling. Bending his head, he lifted the edge of her shirt to reveal the bare skin there. Kissed her. Absorbed in one another, they were unaware that Anamaria had slipped out of the room.

Elizabeth sighed, running her fingers through his hair. "Are you happy?" she asked.

He looked up, lowering the shirt, his eyes steady on hers. "Can I be? Having wanted a child with you for so long, only to bring into this world…"

He had risen. She put a hand on his arm, fear appearing in her gaze. "What are you saying, Will?"

"I don't…" he cut off, and shook his head.

"What world?" she insisted, a sudden anger igniting in her countenance. "The world of piracy?"

"No," he answered, his voice grave. "The exact opposite." Without another word, he turned away from her, leaving the room, leaving her bereft and cringing, the happiness of the day drawn out of her. As if a needle had punctured her, drawn out everything good, left the darkness.


	16. Aftermath: Part I

Progressing Against Propriety

* * *

The moon was high, the sky obsidian, and the wick of candles tapered to nigh nothingness. The dark ship swayed gently upon dark seas, veiled by an alcove. The standstill was a well-earned respite, yet stifling all the same, the urge to move forward and progress upon a journey dampened by lingering doubts. Lingering fears, notions, conflicts. Faith diminished in a sweeping motion, like a black cloud eclipsing the moon.

There was movement about the ship, and yet a contemplative hush blanketed from stem to stern. A jangling of keys, a creaking of wooden planks. The upper deck was silent, even the rustle of the sails extinguished. Footsteps and mutterings issued from below—the cellar, the supply room, the cabins. Preparations for an early dawn sail underway.

A shaft of moonlight revealed a figure in the gloom, passing beneath a stepladder leading below to a cellar in the lowermost part of the ship; leading above to the narrow passageways with cabins on either side. The figure expelled a breath, audible in the silence. A hand sliding across a wooden step. Passing before the light, a shadowed male face and dark hair shining silver. A soft, impassioned curse uttered.

"Thought you were free from discovery here, did you William?"

The figure startled, backing up, letting out another soft curse. "Damn it, Jack. Do you never announce your presence?"

Another figure revealed himself—the pirate stepped into the moonlight, lifting his hand to glance at his glinting rings in a noncommittal gesture. "No—not my style, really. But what about you? Do you never tell your dearly beloved why you dash off without a moment's notice?"

He glared in response, opening and closing his mouth in irritation. "How—What gives you the right—"

"It's a regretful habit, you know. She'll begin to suspect there's something wrong with you," Jack continued, a lilt to his voice suggesting laughter that did not come; rather, an accusatory sparkle in his eye.

Will ran a hand through his locks. "Bugger off, Jack."

Jack circled the lad leisurely. "Ah, testy. Any particular reason, boy? Perhaps there is something wrong with you." Jack eyed him over. "From the looks of it."

Will met his eyes, surrendering with a sigh. His voice was coarse, soft. "Elizabeth is with child."

"Ah!" Jack exclaimed, in the manner appropriate to a revelation.

Will turned on him. "But you knew that already."

Jack lifted his brows with a slight shrug, and pointed at his adversary. "But that's not your trouble. Nor is it with the fact that your heart's divine is affected by a condition of your doing—nice way of clearing up the eunuch question by the way—but rather…" He paused for effect, ignoring Will's scathing glares. "...rather, it is the circumstances. Is it not?" He concluded, sweeping his hands forward, as if for an audience.

"Oh, God," Will muttered, slumping down onto the bottom step of the ladder. He buried his face in his hands. "What have I done, Jack? What have I done?"

Jack frowned, grimacing a bit. "Well…I thought you had experience with the particulars of intimacy, but…"

"You're such a bastard, Jack. You knew what I meant," Will rebuffed, but upon looking up, offered a tense grin.

Jack returned the grin with a slight nod and sat down beside him, clapping him on the shoulder. "You've done nothing that I wouldn't do, boy. Your life's meaning is threatened, you do everything in your power to remove the threat."

"But I _killed. _I committed murder. You don't underst—"

"So did I, may I remind you," Jack interrupted, waggling his finger. A flash of memory occurred before Will's eyes—the Isle de Muerta, the sound of a shot and Jack holding a smoking pistol, Barbossa falling to the ground dead. "You do what's necessary to protect what's rightfully yours," Jack continued softly, and rose to his feet. He smiled in response to Will's look of protest. "I've never been caught, have I? And as long as you're under my authority, neither will you."

Will stood in turn, fixing him with a wary expression. "You're helping us. Why?"

Jack sighed and began to ascend the ladder. "You don't follow me very well, William. I'm helping myself. Fortunately for you, that extends to helping you, ergo helping your bonny lass."

* * *

With a final flourish, Jack disappeared. Will heard his footsteps above. Taking a step, he too ascended, signing farewell to the elements of the night. He reached a door, suddenly gripped with anxiety, shame. He knocked; the door swung ajar. Dim candlelight warmed the room—sultry, quiet. Silent, he closed the door behind him, turned the latch with a _click_, and then he gazed at her. Gazed at her standing before a dusty mirror, clothed in a white chemise, hair long and gold. He made not a sound; she was beautiful. She had not heard him enter, so absorbed in her silent thoughts. Through the reflection in the glass, he watched her hands weaving across her middle over the material of the chemise, her eyes large and dark and thoughtful. God, she was beautiful. He wanted to arrest her, kiss her. Or she could revile him—his behaviour repulsed him. Anything, she could do anything, as long as she turned. As long as she turned around.

In a moment, he was behind her, his hands on her shoulders, his breath in her ear. She startled, meeting his eyes through the glass. Her gaze was steady.

"Will." Her voice had a soft, ephemeral quality. A wisp of smoke. "I didn't hear you come in."

He held her gaze for another moment. "I'm sorry."

Her shoulders tensed beneath his fingers, and in response his hands dropped away. She spun around, her eyes sharp and searching his as he sat upon the bed, her hands now on her shoulders, where his had been. The touch was vibrant; her shoulders prickled; his touch—never before had he touched her like so, firm and fleeting…what was it?

"You're angry with me," he stated simply.

A deep sadness filled her face, a burden to witness. She pursed her lips, tracing her hands down her arms, causing her to appear small, vulnerable. "How could you presume such a thing?" she whispered, turning her back to him. She bit her lips, wondering what he felt, if he felt anything at all, anything at all except—

"I love you. More than anything in this world. That is why I did it."

She stopped, stopped thinking. She had expected him to say…so many things. She looked at him. The pain in his eyes—her heart ached. Unconsciously, she pressed her hand to her chest, taking a step forward.

"Elizabeth," he whimpered, his resolve crumbling fast before her as his countenance took a frantic turn.

She extended her hand and he grasped it, his gaze penetrating her.

_You own my heart. Should anything happen to me, will you keep it safe?_

Fear, shock reflected in her eyes, and she reached out to touch him, tremulous. The touch sent a jolt through her. "God, Will, what's happening?" She looked up at him. She felt her heart beating fast, she felt as if she were falling, she did not understand, her words were choking her. "Tell me. Please!"

"Oh, Elizabeth…" He threw his arms about her, murmuring against her hair. Her hands gripped the front of his shirt. She hated him and loved him. No—hated _this. _This…

"I had to protect you. I couldn't let…" His embrace tightened; his scent wreathed around her. "I couldn't…"

She leant up, an unknown vehemence in her eyes, and she kissed him abruptly, her nails digging into his skin, leaving a violent mark. She broke away in the same abrupt manner. He panted, licking his lips, looking at her with an expression of hurt and bewilderment.

"You…you despicable man! _You _feel guilty for what you've done—killing the men who slated us for the noose. Do you have no regard for _my _guilt?" she blurted, incensed, and tore out of his arms.

"Elizabeth!" He grabbed her arm, and met her anger with his own. "Do not think for a moment that I have _ever _disregarded the pains you have endured!" he boomed, his former sadness transformed into a viciousness that was nigh unrecognizable. She faltered, instant regret over her words consuming her like a wildfire. Her face grew hot.

"I...I…"

"You said you wanted to go away, leave your life of balls and pleasantries behind, abandon propriety." The magnitude of his voice lessened and he released her. His breaths were heavy. "You hadn't counted on abandoning your father."

She flexed her hand, ashamed by the sudden tears which welled in her eyes. "No," she meant to yell, but only managed to whimper. "No, I did not count on that, because…" She hesitated.

"Because…?"

"Because I counted on _you_, damn it!" she screeched, turning on her heel and fleeing to the door, fumbling with the latch in her hysteria, but his hand snatched her wrist and his body trapped hers, her back against the door, causing it to rattle with the weight.

She was breathing hard—she felt nothing but fury, red fury. She set her jaw—she wanted to scream, wanted to strike him, and she raised her hand, but he was ready for it. Captured it in his own, pinned it against the door. Something flickered in his eyes—everything about him was dark, feral. The candle had long burnt down; only the moonlight sufficed to lighten the room. Their hard breaths interacted, hot against the skin.

"Elizabeth." He spoke her name slowly, an edge to his voice that punctured the silence jaggedly.

Her eyes scintillated. "I hate you," she muttered. "I…"

His fingers chafed her chin. Rough against her neck, sweeping her collarbone, dipping to her breasts. She shivered—damn it, damn him—she wanted to cry. She felt herself shaking, beyond her control. She felt his lips upon hers, firm and coaxing. She attempted to pull away, but he kept her there—his touches, his damnable lips. She hissed, the indescribable passion augmenting within her—her fury, her pain—and she bit his lower lip, causing him to moan and break away, drawing his tongue over the wound. She was free, he had released his grip on her, and she watched him for a moment, passion heightened, still emitting heavy breaths. He met her eyes again, something raw and incomprehensible there.

"Bastard," she muttered, and kissed him with renewed fervour, her tongue flickering to taste his lips, her fingers tearing at his shirt, wandering brazenly over his skin.

With a groan hardly suppressed, he grasped her, stumbling headlong onto the bed, and groped about her chemise, tearing it in frustration.

"Ah!" she gasped, throwing her head back as he drew a hand down to her abdomen, leaving it to rest there.

"For God's sake, Elizabeth," he hissed, his voice deep and hoarse.

Her eyes fluttered madly as she looked at him.

"Don't you know that this baby means the world to me?" He looked down, his caresses gentler, his hands weaving against her stomach. "God," he muttered, and lowered his head, pressing his lips to her stomach, kissing her skin repeatedly.

She trembled, raising her knees, her heart aching and racing. "Will…"

He paused, looking at her. "Don't you…"

She lifted up, taking his face into her hands, and kissed him, groaning against his lips, "Yes….yes."

He gazed at her, lowering her beneath him. His touch lingered, faint, inducing her skin to set aflame. His eyes never wavered from her face.

"Will…" she gasped, a tear gathering in her eye to glisten upon her drawn cheeks. Closing his eyes briefly, he expelled an erratic sigh and settled above her. "Oh, how I love you," he breathed.

She shuddered, parting her lips, crying out his name as he finally kissed her, taking her, enveloping her.

* * *

The ship rocked and pitched, sailing onwards towards escape, abandoning the course of reason and temperance. Onwards towards the unknown, reckless and unrestrained, shunning the consequences. Love and hate, passion and gentleness. Words and arguments forgone. The driving force of blind passion, unplanned, fortuitous. Rocking on the shores of unreal paradise. Touching, glancing, knowing the meaning of naught but a kiss and the brush of skin against skin. Refusing to let go, refusing to wake from the dream. What is real, what is delirium? The friends of the old world—the grey world, rosy, glassy, and perfected—mistrusted and thus forgotten; the friends of the new world—the lush world, tropical, kaleidoscopic, and unpredictable—depended on and thus embraced. Minds confused, yet not willing to speak. They yearned for the embrace to be eternal, but the illusion must break, the truth and its consequences around the corner. One more kiss. One more kiss…


	17. Aftermath: Part II

Progressing Against Propriety

A/N: Sorry for the wait; Life got in the way...

* * *

The morning dawned clear, blushing beams of sunlight filtering through the fine mist which lingered from the evening past. Buoying upon the water, the ship of ethereal quality made steady progress in the midst of a vast sea. A vast sea of possibilities—forgive the pun. Changing course—from nowhere to somewhere—the compass ceased its aimless spinning and settled upon a slight north-easterly direction. To inquiries and raised brows of scepticism, the Captain answered his crew with confidence, shooing them away with the _toujours charmant _'Bugger Off.' Tortuga? Is that not possibly the worst…? Trust, gents, trust. Seek not pleasure but valuable information. Ah, Ah-trust.

Trust indeed. Implicitly granted. Yet so easily lost to distrust, to suspicion. To hate that sickens the stomach like rotten eggs and sour grapes. Toxic.

Fortunately, no. Trust blanketed the atmosphere of the ship, for there was naught else to grasp onto. Life depended on trust. Even if it meant…even if it meant….no, trust saved one from insanity, from running in circles unable to escape the vicious cycle of misunderstanding and blame. Miscommunication gone as far as to make remedy of a situation impossible. The breaking of ties. No, trust was the only alternative. And so the ship sailed on towards the dark and cryptic shores of a marauding sea village. The Captain sailed on with no fear, no fear of detection. And so the crew followed in his stead, arguing the point no longer. And so the sheltered of the ship followed in his stead, asking no questions. They had no right, they felt, for he had led them from the claws of death. They had no right, or else fear of the truth and reality made them compliant. Whatever it was, was accepted. Even if it meant…even if it meant….the beginning of distrust.

* * *

The cabin was shrouded in a cool hush come first light. The warming temperatures of late evening frittered away to wintry clime in the dawn. Grey illumination cast pallor upon the skin. Soft breaths hovered in cloudy patches of air and trembling fingers grasped at woollen blankets for comfort.

She huddled in the mussed coverlet, bringing the edge of the sheet around her shoulders in the feeble desire for warmth. Folding her arms, she sat blank and contemplative. Her eyes fluttered, aimless, about the room. Coming to settle full circle upon the bed. Upon him. Influenced by the pull of slumber, he lay serene and still, an outstretched arm nigh brushing her leg. A pout accentuating her lips as she knit her brow, she leant upon her elbow, the sheet slipping and leaving her cold once more as she shifted. Her skin prickled, and she saw his fingers curl reflexively against her. With a swallow, she leant her head back against the headboard of the bed. She had no idea what to think, how to feel. Weary, affronted, satisfied? Angry, happy? Her fault, his, anyone's? She closed her eyes. She failed to know, to understand, only aware that she was _here_, but how she arrived here remained incomprehensible. She felt odd pressure at her eyes and snapped them open. Sleep was evasive, unnecessary, too late now though dawn still lingered in the sky.

She allowed her gaze to drop, to rest upon his visage. Beautiful, as if carved, in the morning radiance. Angelic. Ebony ringlets fluttered against his forehead, cascading before his eyes. She pouted again, but not with unhappiness. With another sentiment—sadness? She had difficulty in defining it. She tilted her head and lifted her hand, and before she could stop herself, her fingers touched his curls. Soft. Luxuriant coils peeking through the spaces between her slender fingers. She lacked restraint and uttered a tremulous sigh as her hand weaved deeper into the sleek tresses, pushing them back, unveiling the upper part of his face. Unconsciously—thought evaded her now—she leant down, her hand nestled into his hair. So long now, falling past his shoulders. How had she failed to notice? A full moustache, bristles along his chin and jaw. Her thumb swept his cheek. He looked—it made him look—

Strange sensation. She was taken aback. He was different. No longer a timid blacksmith. He was—

A flash of his feral eyes, his commanding tongue, his confident touch.

Her head cleared once more, and when her eyes returned to focus, she found his staring back at her. Full and dark. She could not speak, did not move as his hand circled her wrist and slid up her arm. Her lips parted as he continued to stare back at her, and of a sudden he was sitting before her and his hands were around her back and he was holding her. Her body nestling so perfectly against his. He was all warmth, all heat, all orange, piquant and zesty with a subtle sweetness underneath. As her hand had burrowed into his hair, she burrowed into the warmth of his being, his scent. This man who was undeniably different. Yet…yet….

"Elizabeth…darling."

His voice broke the glass framework of her confused thoughts into scattering shards. Her head cleared, clearer than before, receptive.

He held her close, breathing, his words seeming to seep into her skin. "Elizabeth, I'm so sorry." He whispered at her ear, his voice feeble, insecure. "I don't know what to do...I don't know what to do. All I've ever wanted was a guarantee of your safety. Your happiness. But now I can't…" His voice broke, his breaths catching upon one another, his hands trembling at her back.

She leant away, her eyes solemn. "Will," she murmured, and touched his face, the face she thought had aged somehow and had transformed him into someone she could not know. But as he looked back at her with raw anxiety in his eyes, she knew him at once. A tear fell across his cheek and against her finger, ending and fading at her wrist.

"Eliz—" he began, fractured, and closed his eyes, leaning his cheek into her palm. In a trice, she kissed him, pressing her lips against his. She felt him moan, a rumble within his throat, and he broke the kiss. His eyes anguished, she kissed him again, brief.

"Elizabeth, I…I can't."

There he was, her blacksmith, her Will from days vanished, the same Will that had always been there, underneath. The youthful insecurity beneath an exterior aged by tribulation. She wrapped her arms around his neck, buried her face. "Will, what is it?" she asked gently. She felt his fingers glide down the length of her spine, and then he attempted to pull away. She tightened her embrace, not wanting to let him go. Not now. Now that she knew that—

"I can't take of you, Elizabeth." He sounded—he really couldn't—

She stiffened, and her voice was hollow as she spoke. "What are you talking about?"

He gingerly removed her hands and gazed over her bare form, the shadow of anxiety never fading from his eyes.

"You—You—" He did not meet her eyes. "You hate me."

Her jaw clenched; there was an unknown edge to her tone, trepidation. "What?"

He finally lifted his eyes. Hoarsely, he murmured, "Did I hurt you?"

A flash of bewilderment came into her eyes, her heart beating fast.

He ran a shaking hand through his hair. "You said you…hated me, and then I…and then I…" He turned away, his hands clenching. "_Good God, _I took advantage of…I _touched_ you after you said—"

Coldness, she felt encased in ice, and a shock pierced her heart. "No, no, no, no. No, Will, no," she muttered. "No, no…"

"How could I…Jesus Christ, I'm no different than _them!_ Jesus—Elizabeth—"

"Stop it, Will!" she screeched, grasping his arms and forcing him to look into her face. Tears blurred her vision. "Just stop it." She touched his face. "It's like you don't know yourself anymore. You're _not _like them. _No! _You didn't hurt me. You could never…hurt me." She paused, lowered her hand, did not see his countenance shift. "Except by saying things like this." She looked back up at him. "_This _hurts me. I know you, and for you to say…for you to compare yourself with utter filth…" She paused, the sudden pain within her chest unbearable. "I just…I just…"

He expelled a low groan, pulling away from her, and shook his head in slow abandon. "After what I've done, how can you bear to look at me?"

"Done?" she cried, a sharp inflection in her voice. There was a loud rustle of sheets and a creaking movement, and when he stole a glance, she was gone. Standing bare, arms crossed over her chest, trembling. Her eyes damp, vivid. Delicate and vulnerable, she looked as if a single touch could send her shattering. The wing of a butterfly—too delicate, too beautiful, too susceptible.

"Elizabeth," he murmured, and reached out for her instinctively, his immediate reaction to take her into his arms, to protect her, to soothe her pain, urge her to rest—yet…yet…his protecting had not saved her, his arms had not soothed her, not….

She uttered a small, whimpering sound, wrapping her arms about her middle. "You look at _me _like that. Don't you love me anymore?"

A flash of anger overcome his countenance. "Of course I love you." His voice was deep, gruff. "How could you think for one moment—?"

She staggered, wrapping her arms ever tighter, and an anguished expression crossed her face. "Then take care of me."

His heart stung at her impassioned whisper. "I…" He stood, approached her, stroked her arm as he studied her face. "I want to, Elizabeth. But after what I've done…"

"You've done nothing!" she seethed, trembling. She lowered her voice, her eyes glittering. _"I _wanted you last night, more than you could know."

He groaned, throwing his head back, clenching his hands. "Elizabeth—I believe my behaviour was despicable—not just last night—through everything."

She gave him a guarded look, hurt. "What the _hell_ is going on here, Will?"

He gave a sharp sigh and placed his hands on her shoulders. "I've killed two men, Elizabeth. Yes, I murdered them. I had to." His eyes took on a red hue. "They'll blame me for the murder, they'll have to. They'll find me…and what then?"

She stepped away from him, her eyes large and her features drawn inward somehow, making her gaunt. "Stop this right now, William," she said, her voice firm yet gravelly.

He persisted. "What will I be to you, what will I be to our child—"

She attempted to back away as he drew a hand to her, but he came closer, placing one hand on her back, one hand on her stomach.

"—if I…am no longer here?"

She looked down, grasping his wrist, staring at his cool fingers splayed against her skin. His beloved fingers which had touched her, soothed her innumerable times. As she gazed upon those fingers, the magnitude of his touch stuck her in an abrupt moment. Her throat clenched and her breathing grew strained as unbidden tears rained upon her cheeks. She felt the hand at her back disappear to caress her face. She did not move, did not speak, just let him touch her.

"I want this _terribly, _Elizabeth. More than I've wanted anything in my life. I want _you_—God Almighty, how I've always wanted you!"

The energy, the anger, left her body and she slackened, weak, unable to fight. She leant her forehead against his shoulder, her body tilting against his for support. "You can have me. Take all of me. Just don't leave me," she begged, loathing how lost and pathetic she sounded and felt. But she could not make it—she could not—

In that moment, as she clung to him, utterly spent, needing him so desperately, wanting this as much as he, he made a decision. Swallowing hard, he enveloped her in his arms. He kissed her temple, pressing his lips firmly, assuredly.

"I will have you, take you; you'll always be with me." His breath ruffled her hair. "Nothing will separate us. And I won't leave." His voice lowered to a whisper into her ear. "That is a promise, my Elizabeth."

She looked up, clinging to hope. He had promised. She cared not whether it was a lie or no, just that he had promised; that he was unwilling to leave her.

He brushed the hair from her face, the well-known flicker of compassion igniting in his eyes. "We'll escape, that's all. Become vagabond pirates if we must." He kissed her tentatively, staring into her eyes before kissing her again. "Do you trust me?"

Drawing a deep, inward breath, she nodded. "I don't care about anything. I didn't mean what I said last night. I just need you. _God, _Will, I—"

"Shh….I know. I know," he answered, lifting her and placing her to lie upon the bed. A moment of quiet passed as he wrapped the sheet around her, staring at her with ardour and uncertainty.

"We'll be all right?" she asked quietly.

He touched her cold hand; placed it against his heart.

"Yes. _Yes_," he said at length, his voice rich and warm. He lay down beside her, keeping a hand light yet protective at her stomach, and kissed her cheek. "I love you, so much."

"Oh, Will," she whispered, tears falling from her eyes.

He brushed them away, kissed her trembling lips. "We will get through this, come what may. I won't abandon you."

She surrendered to the protective strength of his embrace that she had always known and murmured, "I never thought you would."

Feeling his rent heart mending, he kissed her—the pain, the love, the turbulent emotions, ebbing between them through the kiss, the result dizzying.

"We're all right," he mumbled, enveloping her in his arms. "We're all right."

"Thank God, Will," she responded, pressing ever closer to him, needing his closeness, needing to feel the beat of his heart. "I need you, so much."

Knowing what happened, knowing the truth of what occurred in the hell of a town called Port Royal—

Trust. They placed trust and faith in the future, in their progress. They could not look back, never. For looking back would mean…the beginning of distrust. Poisonous memories, the darkest days. They were escaped from it, stepping into the sun, riding upon the sea, headed away from the past, the destination unclear. But _away_. That was enough. Enough. Grasping onto tendrils of hope. Grasping onto each other. What more is there? How to mend the pain and heal the heart that had been shredded? Thrust through tests, seared with fire and then dipped in water. Slashed at and the wounds left scars. But time heals wounds. Time—another thing that was dubious. Time could provide space for forgetfulness of deeds committed, or not. Space for repairing lives. One could only hope.

* * *

Midafternoon struck with the sun bright and hot, casting a layer of diamonds upon the sea. Captain Jack Sparrow stood at the helm guiding course, every now and again drawing forth a spyglass to survey the horizon. The waters had calmed after the riot which had lasted for days on end, the sky clear at long last, no further signs of rain. But then the lack of rain meant heat, stifling heat. Heat that caused mirage to dance before one's eyes. Nothing a bottle of rum or a slap in the face couldn't cure, however. The Captain smiled before shrugging his coat to the floor—_that _was what Anamaria was good for. A woman upon a merchant sailing vessel bad luck? Heavens, no. She could always be called upon to deliver a slap of sense, if not a bottle of rum. Rum. That was beginning to sound desirable, more so than a slap. More so than a woman's presence, surely.

"Do we have a heading, Captain?"

A voice brought him out of his thoughts and he glanced up, his eyes sparking. "Ah, William," he greeted to the lad who leant back against the railing. Jack looked him up and down. "Well, don't _you_ look like you've been to World's End and managed to get back alive."

Will grimaced. "What?"

Jack sighed, twirling his hand in a dramatic gesture. "Never you mind. Where's the bonny lass? 'Spect she'd be attached to you like mussels upon the Pearl's hull."

"I asked if we had a heading," Will countered, avoiding his remarks.

Jack tipped his hat. "And so we do."

Will waited for him to continue; he did not. "And so, where are we headed?" he pressed.

"That piece of information is not necessarily needed for you to sail upon this ship, for this is _my _ship, therefore you have no say in where the ship leads, and thus have no interest in its destination, for you are powerless to change it anyhow," he answered in rapid procession.

Without warning, Will strode over to the wheel and gave it a tight yank, effectively changing the ship's course due left. Jack glowered at him in indignation. "What the bloody hell—?"

"Obviously, I _can _have a say in where this ship leads. Add to that, Elizabeth and I have an intimate interest in where this ship is destined, for our agenda is now one of escape, and we have agreed to engage in piracy if need be to attain our goal."

Jack regarded him silently for a moment, mischievous curiosity churning in his countenance. "Have you, now?" He put his arm around Will's shoulders, drawing him off to the side. "If my perception is correct, I am thinking—only thinking, mind—that your goals are rather similar to mine."

Will stepped back, wary. "How so?"

Jack pressed his lips together. "Well…let me let you in on a little secret. I want to foil the British Royal Navy's plans, bring them down, while providing a safeguard for myself. Sound familiar?"

Will did not speak, merely looked uncomfortable.

"Ah, I thought so." Jack stepped back to the wheel to return to the set course. "Having established this…extraordinary revelation, I have a proposition to make."

Will shook his head at once. "Not interested."

Jack gave him a lazy grin. "Why so eager to distrust me? Listen, mate: you join me crew—for all intents and purposes—and I guarantee your lifelong safety." He spat out his tongue. "The collective 'you' being used here, if you get my meaning."

Will sighed, running a hand through his locks. "I don't know, Jack. No loopholes?"

"Think of it this way, William. Thanks to the kindness of my heart, you and your bonny lass are sheltered aboard the _Pearl_. Under my jurisdiction. I can choose to toss you overboard and leave you to the fishes…or not." He paused. "Your pick."

Will glowered, turning to walk away. "You present a hard bargain, Jack."

"I take that as a yes, then?"

"Where are we headed?" Will pressed, his back to him.

"Why, it's about time you asked, lad. Tortuga."

Will's back rippled as he expelled a sigh, and soon his footsteps were heard to clatter down the steps towards the galley. Jack smiled, pleased that he had struck a deal. A deal that he could afford to make. Hell, was bartering such a crime?

* * *

Will hurried below deck, tightness in his chest as he passed the cabin to find it vacant. The tightness dissipated as he came upon her in the galley, leaning against the countertop with a bitten apple in her hand. She dropped it once he came into the room.

"Will, what is it?"

Without a word, he came to her, drawing a hand against her neck before kissing her lips. He gazed into her eyes. "Elizabeth, we're en route to Tortuga."

A crinkle appeared upon her forehead. "Why?"

"Search me. It's a horrid idea—the place must be crawling with military men. It's a known haven for miscreants."

Elizabeth's eyes darkened and she touched his arm. "What do we do?"

Will faltered, regarding her with caution and curiosity. "What would you say to the notion of piracy? What would you say if…" He stroked his chin in thought. "…If we were among those miscreants?"

Her eyes reflected apprehension along with something else, a secondary sentiment. "What exactly did Jack say to you?"

"He proposed that we join his crew, and reap the benefits thereof."

Elizabeth folded her arms, huffing softly. "And that will help us avoid capture?"

Will gave a noncommittal shrug. "We've done things our own way before, going decidedly against Jack's instructions, the result of which…" He purposely faltered, allowing her to pick up the pieces.

"Well," she murmured, beginning to pace the room, the apple in her hand once more. She tossed it from one hand to the other, a flash of light green between her fingers. "Well." She halted and looked at him. "I suppose we must risk it then. Risk becoming pirates in order to escape." She tossed the apple; he caught it in his hands and then brought it to his mouth for a bite.

"You're sure?" he asked, holding out the apple. She joined him once more, taking the piece of fruit into her hands.

She took the final bite, tossing the core away so that it rolled across the wooden table. "I trust you. Surprising as it is, I trust Jack." She shrugged and flicked a stray bit of apple from her finger. "What more is there?"

To her surprise, he chuckled softly, the sound warm and lovely. He lifted his hand, brushing his finger against the corner of her mouth. "Here," he murmured.

Elizabeth looked down; noticed the sliver of apple. "Oh, I see," she replied, and licked it away, her tongue flicking out, her lips grazing his finger, lingering. He kept his hand at her mouth, tracing her lips with a not unknown light shining in his eyes.

His voice was soft, sensuous. "How do you feel about taking supper in our cabin?"

She kissed his lips with keenness, breaking away at the point at which he urged continuance. "I say we forgo supper altogether."

Capturing her lips again, he lifted her in his arms, leaving the galley quiet and abandoned, all evidence of there having been anyone there gone, save for the core of an apple.


	18. Aftermath: Part III

Progressing Against Propriety

* * *

The ship made berth in an alcove come sunrise. Beaches of white sand with lush forest and curious natives did not greet them this occasion, no. The town at which they docked was one which never slept. Constant carousing and revelry regaled their arrival. Scantily clad women with painted faces and accented bodices—fallen women—traipsed the streets. Men staggered about wasted and gunshots sounded in the smoky air for no particular reason.

This was Tortuga. The sweet, proliferous bouquet of men's fancies. A haven for those resisting capture. A horde of treasures; treasures of varied forms. Some offered themselves in the shape of gold coins. Others, a flagon of wine or brandy, or better still, rum. And yet others in the shape of a body coaxing one to share a bed. Certainly, many treasures awaited the crew of the _Black Pearl._ The men stood on their toes in anticipation, the early hour doing nothing to faze them, for sleep was but a secondary requirement upon these seas. Docked in one position for more than a few hours—yes, sleep was indulged in. But upon the sea—whose treachery bested that of a woman—sleep was ephemeral and unimportant. A fleeting and passing fancy, as one Master Gibbs put it.

Tortuga. The prospect of the town seemed to place the crew better at ease, despite its inherent dangers. The truth—though not spoken of a whit—of the loathed Navy's increasing awareness of the island as a sanctuary for gentlemen of fortune provided just cause for anxiety. Whispers travelled around the ship.

"After what happened to the Isle de Muerta…"

"What?"

"Well, it's gone all pear-shaped due to the hurricane."

"Aye…at least that curse be buried with it."

"What'll 'appen to Tortuga, then, eh?'

If the worst of their troubles was the possibility of Tortuga becoming pear-shaped…well. There's not much more to say in that regard.

No, no. The worst of their troubles was the possibility of another hurricane. The tumultuous waves and relentless bouts of rain gave them more anxiety than they were willing to deal with. Sleepless nights turning to sleepless weeks of being water-sloshed and tending the _Pearl _to ensure she bore the unstable weather tolerably enough.

Of course the knowledge that the Navy had not given up—that the Commodore and his comrades had nooses reserved and waiting for them—bothered them more than they let on. The Captain went on in his usual way, sauntering about the _Pearl_'s deck with a smug countenance. All the while knowing very well that a reward, a substantial one, had been offered up for his capture. Sure, his plan to regain clemency may have not come to fruition. But there were always alternatives. Nothing a bit of stealthy bargaining couldn't handle. A bit of logical persuasion.

And so they ceased to worry over it, encouraged by the Captain's confidence. False confidence? One was never too sure with Jack Sparrow, but as the rigging was secured and they saw his easy smile, they had no choice but to trust him.

"Ah, the sweet smell of return." Jack leaned over the side of the ship, surveying the town in mild appreciation. Holding the rim of a bottle to his lips, he took a leisure swig of rum. "Have at it gents."

The crew began to descend, going off in different directions, but one man stayed behind. Joshamee Gibbs regarded Jack for a moment, and then approached him with caution. "Now, I must ask Cap'n—why are we really here? Apart from…" he paused, tipping his hat to a scarlet woman who looked up as she sauntered by in a seductive manner. "…the general reason."

Jack lifted his brows in interest at the woman in turn. "You shall see, Master Gibbs. Before becoming utterly sloshed, I intend to retrieve some answers."

"Ah," Gibbs murmured, a twinkle coming into his eyes. "Not something to do with the Turner boy?"

Jack laughed, full and hearty. "How history does repeat itself. Does it _not, _Master Gibbs?"

"Aye, as sure as the sea. But why the boy again, Jack? Somethin' funny 'bout him. Can't seem to put me finger on it."

Jack raised his bottle. "Resembles his father to a tee."

"Aye—"

"But there's something more to it," he resumed, twiddling with his beard in thought. "I think that boy is destined for something," he finished at last.

"Destined," Gibbs repeated, intrigued. "Like his father was destined for the Locker?"

Jack's jaw dropped slightly. "Hell, I hope not. But he _does _have a touch of destiny about him. Regarding what though…"

Both were silent for a moment, pondering this strange possibility as the sun rose higher into the sky, about to resume speech before the sound of footsteps from behind shattered their ruminations.

"You men are all the same—utter scoundrels."

Jack and Gibbs turned about, their gazes meeting with one Elizabeth Turner. More so a Turner now than ever a Swann. Chance or destiny? No, too complicated to contemplate. She stood barefoot though clothed in a long coat against the morning chill, hands folded at her middle. An expression akin to disgust was etched upon her face. Jack took a step towards her, tilting his head in a manner which suggested endearment.

"I hope you're not referring to me." A new voice cut in, and Will, that destined boy, approached her.

Jack watched him smile at her, tender, and place his hand on her stomach.

Jack lowered his eyes, turned away, feeling something strange clench within him. Damn, what was it? Such long weeks upon the sea without respite—that was it. Surely. Without announcing his departure, he secured his hat upon his head and was soon lost in the midst of the town, throwing the empty rum bottle to the ground with a loud crash.

"Something's got Jack vexed," Gibbs muttered before entering the melee himself.

* * *

A cool breeze blew across the deck, rippling the ship's sails that had not yet been drawn down. They were the only two left aboard—save for perhaps Anamaria—and were thus graced with a quiet stillness, despite the ruckus of the town beyond.

Elizabeth uttered a soft sigh, the touch of her husband's hand filling her with warmth. She turned around in his arms, putting her hands on his chest and leaning against him, her cheek resting upon his shoulder.

Will regarded her with slight surprise and embraced her, rubbing her back gently. "You all right, love? I didn't hear you wake, so I came to find you."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't want to disturb you," she responded, pulling back.

He gave her a look of incredulity. "You could never _disturb _me, Elizabeth."

She noted something other than humour in his eyes and could not ignore it. "You're not still worried, Will?"

He averted his gaze, dropping his hands from her back to weave them through his hair. "No."

Her lips pouted and a crease appeared on her brow. "You can't lie."

He looked back at her in immediate defeat. "No, I can't. Not to you." He took her hand. "I just have to ensure your safety."

She extracted her hand and the crease in her brow deepened. Her next words were abrupt and her gaze firm. "Will, I don't want to talk about this anymore. So, this is Tortuga?"

She sauntered towards the railing, displaying keen curiosity in the goings-on of the town. Exasperated, Will's words stuck in his throat. He clenched a hand, staring at her back. What he wanted to say—what he could not say—what she did not want to hear—

He decided to drop it. He resumed a place by her side, feigning interest in the new topic of conversation. "Yes, this is it, in all its splendour and glory."

She flicked her eyes to him briefly. "You've never told me about it, you know. Despite the various occasions at which I asked for details."

A light entered into his eyes which reminded her of their days of youth when he would attempt to warn her against engaging in some less than decorous behaviour. Jumping into the water from the docks of Port Royal came to mind. She smiled, and that seemed to vex him as he spoke. "No, and there's a good reason for that. Tortuga is no place for a respectable woman. I won't allow you to degrade yourself by stepping foot on that pirate-infested dirt."

Her smile augmented to a trill of laughter. "Pirate-infested! Are we not pirates now ourselves? Why should we not reap the benefits as do our fellow crew members?"

"Elizabeth." The light was there in his eyes, coupled with a tone of admonition in his voice. "The _benefits_ our supposed crew members reap are of the most unsavoury kind."

She pursed her lips, a notion entering her head; she wanted to test it. "Am I to suppose that when you came here with Jack, you—"

The light was gone in an instant. "No—no! For God's sake, no. What kind of man do you take me for?"

Her expression softened and sweetly, she drew a finger along his jaw. "A very decent one."

He looked disgruntled. "Decent, am I?"

She smiled, allowing him his moment of irritation as she turned towards the railing once more, tracing her fingers absently along the wood. "I still want to see what all the fuss is about." She felt him clutch her arm. He was utterly serious.

"You're a woman, Elizabeth. A beautiful one in delicate condition, at that."

She frowned, her hand going unconsciously to her middle.

"This is the _last _place you'll be seen walking about. You will not be leaving the ship if I have anything to do with it."

His manner was harsh, reminding her of later days not so far in the past when she had expressed interest in learning fencing techniques. She had wheedled her way into that one. It was necessary for her own protection, was it not? But now he was not to be argued with. He must have discerned her submission, for he released her arm and muttered, "That is the final word. And I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Somehow, his words cut her like a knife, or perhaps it was his rapid retreat below deck. Then she realized that those were _her _words first. She felt insulted. Not wanting to stand there alone in the open any longer, she found herself in the galley. As soon as she began looking for food or drink, she lost her appetite. Instead, she sagged to the floor, her back against one leg of the table, and closed her eyes. No, she should not defy him. But…but…

* * *

The shortness of the days was being felt to a greater and greater degree. Dusk arrived promptly. The day ending but the night just beginning. The streets of Tortuga were more crowded, the true essence of the town seeping out into the atmosphere. The sights, the smells, the sounds—so true to form. So true to the accounts she had only read about in those childish novels. Accounts that had, to her surprise, turned out accurate for the most part.

To any passerby, the figure peeping tentatively through the alleys and around barrels of liquor was a young and scruffy cabin boy. To anyone who knew better, the figure was none other than the wife of a runaway blacksmith in disguise. Previously a member of the gentry. Recently turned pirate. To anyone who knew better, that is. Disguised the way she was—in vest, trousers, boots, her hair shoved under a large hat—she was unrecognizable even to those who knew her. Well, she kept her gaze averted in any case.

Winding her way into a boisterous bar, she scanned the room. Her eyes lighted as they fell upon a familiar face—Jack Sparrow. Slipping through the crowd, she snuck behind a pillar, within earshot of the Captain. He was engaged in conversation with a circle of men unknown to her.

"….Shame 'bout that lassie, eh? Real treasure, that 'un. Get a taste of 'er, did ye Captain?" A Scot's voice, foreign.

Jack laughed, clinking his glass. "_Which _lass, mate? Impossible to keep track."

"Eh—the one Barbossa held as prisoner no more 'n a year ago, lucky bastard. So much for _him, _now he's dead. Curse, was it?" Another voice.

Jack cleared his throat, dropping the glass onto the table, causing it to slosh. "Ye mean _that _lass. Well, word gets 'round."

"'Course that's who I mean. Gov'nor's daughter. Shame she's dead. What I'd have give fer a taste of 'er…"

"Dead?" Jack interrupted, a lilt of interest to his voice.

"Aye, she and that Turner lad—Bootstrap Bill's whoreson. Funeral was in Port Royale." The man who spoke raised his brows. "Your territory, Sparrow. Surprised you didn't hear of it."

Jack spread his arms out wide. "You know me, gents. I am _Captain Jack Sparrow. _I've washed my hands—figuratively—of that affair, moved onto something else. As if I would care a white for that yeasty codbeast." His face contorted in disgust. "Surrendered me to the noose, he did. An' to think Bootstrap's blood runs in his veins. He's an utter disgrace to the name of piracy."

"_Was _a disgrace. Bet you're more pleased than any. 'Tis well we're rid of 'em."

A large grin spread across Jack's face and he raised his glass. "_Extremely _pleased. To the death of the unworthy," he toasted, his voice low and dramatic. "Take what ye can!"

"Give nothin' back!" the men returned the toast.

* * *

The discreet cabin boy turned, hand clasped against his mouth and eyes wide. Wandering directionless out of the bar, he was not bothered even when he bumped into others, oblivious to flying curses and glares and shoves. Oblivious even to the overtures of women flaunting their availability for the evening.

The cabin boy was unsure how he reached the docks, but he was there at the gangplank; suddenly there on the deck. More shouting and shaking and flying curses that he had turned an oblivious ear to, until he turned into a she once again, and realized from whom the shouts and the shaking and the curses were coming from.

"What the _hell _were you thinking, Elizabeth? Damn it! You explicitly went against my wishes! Did you want to hurt me that badly? God, why won't you answer me!"

"Will, Will!" For the first time she caught her breath, gathered her bearings, forgetting that she was dressed as she was. "I have something to tell you."

His expression was furious, dark and menacing. With an emphatic gesture, he released her arms, the pressure with which he grasped her leaving a slight imprint. "Damn it all to hell, Elizabeth!" He spat. "Why do you go and do something so goddamn bloody stupid? You could have been killed, you could have been—"

He expelled a harsh breath and threw his head back, pacing in front of her. "You're a bloody stubborn simpleton sometimes, Elizabeth, and I don't know what the hell to think; how the hell to protect you if you won't listen to me—!"

Hot tears filled her eyes and her voice shook. "William, I am not going to apologize. You have to trust me. I don't need protecting every moment!"

He turned a fire-laden gaze to her and stared at her for a long moment, anger meeting anger, bristling. When he spoke next, his voice was level. "Just tell me…why you did it. You said you didn't hate me. Has that changed?"

She clenched her hand into a fist, resisting the urge to shove him. She attempted to control her voice, but it rattled. "I don't hate you, Will, though I come _very _close to disregarding you."

He closed his eyes, inhaling. "Obviously."

"I refuse to suffer from the past. What happened was…horrifying, but I'm trying to move forward. If only you would let me."

He opened his eyes and looked at her. Tears fell down her face.

"Do you think I want to remember?" She spoke in a tense whisper. "Why do you think I went along with this dodgy plan?" She raised her eyes to the sky, lifting her hands in a symbol of defeat. "Sure, it was my fantasy to become a pirate. But did I ever think it would come to fruition? Did I want it to happen under _these _circumstances? No!" She began to circle, clasping and unclasping her hands. "Damn it, Will, you're the simpleton. I never wanted it this way; I didn't want any of this to happen." She paused, seeming to think for a moment, before shouting to the sky. "Damn it! All this happened and we're here, still trapped in this _hell _that never ends, and _you!_ You standing there and despising me for wanting to make the best of the situation—No! I didn't do this on a goddamned whim because I hate you. I did it because I wanted information—information that could either save our lives or keep us on the run forever. You think I'm stupid, impulsive? Why did you even—"

She was crushed by the force of his body, his strong arms holding her against him. She swayed, stifled by him, by his power and his scent and the potent emotion than burnished between them.

She did not know how long they stayed that way, rocking, grasping, releasing their anger in the strength of their grasp. Lacking control, she began to cry, sobbing into his shirt as he held her, saying nothing. Gradually, breaths slowed and clutches slackened. His hands passed over her hair.

"We have to stop this. For us, for our marriage. For the baby."

She looked up, swallowing heavily, and wiped her eyes. "What's happened to us, Will?"

"I don't know," he answered, his voice soft and innocent and honest, all hints of prior anger disappeared. "I don't know, but it can't happen anymore." He looked uncomfortable, disgusted even. "This is not who we are."

She stepped back, folding her arms. "No, it's not. This whole thing…this toxic chain of events could ruin us."

He looked pained and looked at her as if…as if he loved her. He gently touched her face. "When is the nightmare going to end?"

She blinked, feeling calmer, though her heart still beat rapidly. "I hope soon. Now that…I know something."

"What? What did you hear?"

She regarded him for a moment. "Will, they think we're dead. There was a funeral in Port Royal…and we were among the buried."

He looked stricken with shock.

"It's true," she murmured when he failed to respond.

He turned around, walking about ten paces before turning back. "I…I don't understand…I…."

She resumed slowly, attempting to understand herself. "Someone…was tried and accused for murder. The murder of two military men and one blacksmith."

His eyes were wide. "But…you?"

"Assumed…dead," she answered. Her voice quieted. "Under the circumstances."

Relief—relief?—dark relief shot through his heart. Someone had intervened on their behalf, vouched for them, someone else had taken his place. An act of sacrifice. But for his sake? Who in the world?

"Elizabeth, how much did your father know about our situation?"

The question caught her off guard. "He did not know anything. At least, I said nothing."

His gaze upon her was emphatic. "But he must have known, Elizabeth. Who else would care enough to ensure that you were never found if you were to be accused of a crime?"

Her face paled in sudden understanding. "My father…"

"Yes."

She covered her face with her hands, not knowing what to think; if she was capable of any thought. She remained so for a time, and Will came to place a hand on her shoulder.

"Elizabeth?"

She started. "It makes sense…but then…"

"Then it makes no sense at all," Will finished, shaking his head. "To think…" He rubbed his forehead in consternation. "We're _dead _to them. I can't…"

She took his hands in hers and fixed him with a steady gaze. "I know; it's hard to believe. Dare I say…too good to be true."

Their eyes darkened in unison, and cautious smiles formed on their lips. Laughing at a grim joke that was not meant to be humorous. Standing stagnant with a silent laugh, frozen in time, their entire lives thrown from one extreme to the other. Lives as runaways from the law, always tormented and haunted by the past. Now…death. They were nonexistent—spirits. Strangers filled their graves.

"We should feel very…" She searched for the appropriate word and came up short. "…bad about this. It's…it's gruesome."

"Yes, but…"

She smiled. "_But, _exactly."

He returned the smile. "Do you know what this means?"

Her head seemed full of cotton; she was dizzy and could not think straight. "Not right now," she murmured. She closed her eyes for a moment. She had one solid thought. "I want to apologize to you."

He cleared his throat, drawing her to his side. "We've both acted reprehensibly. Let's leave it at that."

She heaved a great sigh. Her nerves had scattered apart and now were coming back together, like puzzle pieces. "Alright."

"Alright?"

She leant up and kissed his cheek. "Let's go down to supper; I'm starving."

Quietly, they descended the dark stairs to the candlelit galley, a full banquet set upon the table, and they ate as if enjoying the taste of food after years of languishing.

* * *

Midnight closed in with the silent stealth of a sparrow, encapsulating the world in a veil of black flecked with scintillations of white. Scattered diamonds upon a blanket of sable velvet. The sea was as smooth and calm as undisturbed glass, reflecting the sky. The expanse of night was incessant. The enigma of darkness was omnipresent. A careless whisper or a descending footstep swallowed up by the magnitude of boundless sky.

Light and ethereal as a passing phantom, she stepped across the deck, arms outstretched as if to balance, though she had nowhere to fall. She walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies. And all that's best of dark and light meet in her aspect and her eyes.* She glides through the brink of late eve and early morn, perched in that phantasmagorical realm where impossibilities never cease to exist. Endless, the world could go on like this forever. The cessation of time, utterly trapped betwixt night and day. Surrounded by beauty and enigma and consumed with a sense of perpetual excitement and anticipation. Heightened by a dash of fear and the unknown. A hint of arousal. The urge to indulge in reckless abandon without inhibitions prodding at the back of the brain. Escaping mundane reality and becoming oblivious to the past and the future. Only the present, this crux of time where all was raw and pure and true, mattered. Emotions leapt to the forefront. Words unbidden to flee willing lips.

She drew her hand to touch the worn wood of the prow, gazing out to spot the horizon. The result was dizzying. She shivered, folding her arms for warmth in the absence of a cloak. Clinging to the sensations of the night. Footsteps sounded in the near distance, quiet, discernible by the mere creak of the wooden planks. She did not turn; she smiled in the darkness, the spell of eventide enchantment cast upon her.

A warm and comforting presence warded off the cold as a strong form came to envelop her. Hands were revealed in the starlight as arms wrapped about her waist. Breath tickled at her neck in a gentle mist. She parted her lips and sighed.

"Are you alright?"

The voice was deep and resonated in the silence.

"Sure," she answered, her eyes trapped by the web of stars.

"We should probably talk about this."

She felt his lips against her shoulder. The night worked its magic, and she closed her eyes. Her hands slid atop his; she entwined their fingers. "Talk about what?"

"About whether what we're doing—placing faith in a dubious plan—is right. About…what just happened."

She spun about, dazzling him with her eyes which sparkled with brilliance that matched the stars. On impulse, he kissed her, the touch of her lips transferring the spell. Mystery and enchantment, a sudden zeal, flowed through his veins, and he was unsure if he could resist it. Unsure if the stars and the night hour and her magnificence were an illusion. Unwilling to abandon that touch, that kiss.

A loud creak induced their embrace to dissipate. The wooden railing had chafed his back as he had leant against it. Her eyes were soft, full of rapture, as she weaved her lithe fingers through his locks.

"Everything we're doing is right; you shouldn't worry."

"Shouldn't I?" he asked, his lips curving into a smirk. The bottom of her blouse fluttered loose and open. Barely sufficient in the briskness. He grazed his hand against the revealed skin, meeting her rib bones. Cool beneath his touch. A sound escaped her throat. He glanced up into her eyes. The gaze was riveting. The night, so strange and fantastic, had made her spellbound. Had made _him_ spellbound. The enchantment and zeal was increased. Her breath fanned his face, and he was unprepared when she spoke.

"I'm feeling strange."

His eyes widened and still he was riveted.

"As if…as if I've taken a potion."

He kissed her neck, moaning into her skin as he was assaulted with the scent of the exotic, reminiscent of rose and citrus that was _her_, but more potent, more—

"Elizabeth—" He struggled to clear his mind that was raging with all but practical thoughts. "Tortuga is a dangerous place."

He felt her quiver, her nails embedding into his shoulder blades.

"Danger," she whispered. "Nothing we're short on."

"We need to go somewhere afterwards…after Tortuga. Where?" he muttered, his coherent thoughts close to becoming disjointed.

She sought his lips and kissed him, sealing his state of disjunction. "I thought we agreed to be pirates…sail on the seas forever," she answered, her voice distant and breathy.

He had an argument, a solid argument, but it was evading him.

"I have everything I wished for. Do you remember?" she murmured, her fingers light and deft as she loosed the ties of his shirt.

Yes, he remembered _that_—her fervent wish. Piracy. Sailing upon the seas. Freedom. His own version of her dream: _We'll run off into the sunset after all this is over, sail upon the seas for a while, love each other passionately and have children who embrace piracy..._

His breathing slowed and he looked at her. "Yes, I remember. But..."

She pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh, this is perfect."

Yes. Yes, it was perfect. Incessantly perfect. The enchantment and zeal was building up again, ten-fold. Passion sprung from his eyes and he cupped her face in his hands, bringing his lips a hair's breadth away from hers as he spoke.

"Why do I…feel this way?" he groaned. "As if I haven't touched you in years…as if I could have you…" He dropped a hand lower, clenching the back of her blouse. His tone turned gruff. "…right here…on this deck?"

"God, Will," she panted, her eyes lidded. "What about danger?"

His eyes flashed, he spoke low. "_Hang _danger." His hand crept beneath the blouse; explored her back.

With a soft moan, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed against him close. Interrupting the haze of his passion, she whispered to him. "It's all over and we're free from godforsaken propriety."

He lifted his face, his eyes clearing. "Hell, you're right."

She stroked his face. Her body was chilled and sensitive and she wanted nothing more than take him up on his notion of hanging danger. "You _haven't _touched me in years."

"What?" Confusion crossed his face.

She drew her hand down his chest. "Not like _this_. You haven't kissed me—"

Her words were muffled and drowned by his lips. Locked together, it required the greatest resistance they possessed to reach a cabin below deck. Their cabin? Had the door closed, locked? They did not heed, but were struck by golden candlelight which brought them into vivid perspective. Newfound freedom was intoxicating. Propriety turned to ashes and blown away in the wind. Requisite gentility shattered into pieces like a broken porcelain teacup.

_I wish things were different…_ _I want to sail away on a ship, get away from here. I'll enlist Captain Jack Sparrow if that's what it takes. We just need to leave here._

Wishes granted. With the swift magic of an enchanted night. A sense of the fantastic in the air where inhibitions were gone and possibilities endless; where nothing was a hindrance. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, the smiles that win, the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent, a mind at peace with all below, a heart whose love is innocent!*

* * *

*"She Walks in Beauty" by Lord Byron. This beautiful poem does not match the time period of this story, but the words would not leave my mind as I was writing the scene. I think Byron's poetry captures the essence of the scene magnificently.

Thank you for reading & reviewing :)


	19. Recovery: Part I

Progressing Against Propriety

* * *

A/N Rant: Watching AWE is like going back to a bad relationship. Its rips your heart out, yet you keep coming back for more. No matter how many times I watch AWE I still cry, reduced to a teary-eyed mess. I hate the film; I utterly hate it and yet I have watched it a countless number of times. Why—why? I feel as if I've had my own heart cut out of my chest! The writers for this film are very, very cruel. Very cruel. This point has already been hashed out, but Will T. should not have been forced to undergo such hardship. All this "touch of destiny"—please! The majority of the time, I cannot even watch the maelstrom scene because it is horribly wrong. Which is why I did not have the heart (literally and figuratively…) to have Will truly killed in Chapter 12 of this story. Will and Elizabeth deserve some retribution! Who's with me?

* * *

Morning dawned with a peaceful golden brume skimming the surface of the sea. Gulls circled lazily in the firmament, wingtips extending towards the sun and dipping downwards into the waves. The _Black Pearl_ remained docked and stationary, the waves lapping at her hull. Hazy rays of sunlight streamed through the port windows and every crevice of glass, rebounding off walls and mirrors. Dull maroon tapestry burned scarlet, enlivened with the rich and warm hues of gold and emerald. Even the cobwebs took on a quality of brilliance, the damp fibres like lace beaded with diamonds. The sun burnt steadily through the haze and all was warmth and beauty. The dismal times of yesterday, of charcoal-grey rain, evanesced with the coming strength of vermillion fire. The fire of purpose and passion that refused to be extinguished by any spattering of ill-fated rain.

In accordance with the smouldering embers seeming to inspirit the ship, a reverent hush settled upon the atmosphere. The hush of morning before plans were set into motion; before all rose to action. A hush that wafted in the air like steam rising from hot liquid. Lingering steam, wet and redolent and sultry, to offset the invisible flames which licked every corner of the vessel to imbibe it with splendour. The wooden deck and panelling glistened. The stairs and passageways bore a singular lustre. The cabins were all empty save for one, the door held slightly ajar on its hinges, and filled with vibrant life. Sunlight streamed into this cabin most vividly, the windows free from the hindrance of curtains to bar the morning's entrance. A hearty zephyr caused the door to whine open more widely; a creak of movement sounded from within. Footsteps upon the floorboards and a hand dashing out to hold the door back and latch it with a tense breath. Retreating to the centre of the room. The bed creaked with a rustle of sheets. Movement as subtle as silk. A soft sigh; shifting with the sensitivity of honeyed velvet. Stirring into gradual wakefulness. Dark lashes flicker to emit a gleam of eyes. Eyes meeting eyes like pools of liquid fire in the realm of the sun.

Busy old fool, unruly Sun,

Why dost thou thus,

Through windows, and through curtains, call on us?

Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? *

Lovers from the first, meeting in breath and in spirit. Meeting with the gaze of revelation.

A smile flickered on his lips. His fingers traced a path upon her skin, glowing bronze. Gazing upon her, it was he and she only, the world before them and surrounding them. The sun was bright but could not hope to match the brightness of her eyes, her life. He absorbed her radiance, reverberating from his own angelic presence.

"Good morning, Mrs. Turner."

She beamed, gliding skin against skin, onto her back. "Morning, Mr. Turner."

His smile deepened, compassion ablaze in his countenance, never relinquishing his light touch. "Did you sleep well?"

She licked her lips, tasting the warmth in the air. "Remarkably." Their eyes locked in silent discourse. With a movement quick and imperceptible, she leant up to kiss his lips, those sensuous lips, a soft moan triggering in her throat. As she lowered herself to the pillow, the smile did not fade. She bit the corner of her lip, a gleam of lovesick mischief in her eyes.

He grinned smugly, saying naught as he traced her jaw line, fiddling with a curled strand of her hair.

"Last night was…magnificent," she uttered at last.

He gave a deep chuckle. "I'm surprised we made it here. Though we failed to close the door."

She drew light fingers down his chest, her gaze intent as she divulged, "I was quite prepared to have you on the deck."

There was a flash in his eyes and he draped an arm over her waist, gathering her closer. His eyes half-lidded, he leant low, taking her earlobe faintly in his teeth as he whispered, "You flirt with danger much too often, Elizabeth."

She shuddered, her body tingling with renewed heat, and turned her face to meet his eyes. "You're not angry with me, Will," she murmured, a statement rather than a question.

His eyes changed, darkening, and he kissed her on the mouth, the fleeting touch of lips agonizing. "I'm working on that."

Intending to speak, words yet left her, out of breath, dizzied by his closeness, and she kissed him on an impulse. Her hand entangled in his curls, the lapping fire in her veins leaving her in a haze.

"Elizabeth," he groaned low, breaking erratically from the kiss as his eyes raked over her. He touched her, slow and lingering, trailing down the length of her torso, dipping into her navel.

A tremor shot through her; her breath stifled as she lifted her leg and linked it with his to draw him closer. "Will," she gasped. "I could bear your anger, as long as this is the outcome."

Looking down at her with an indefinable countenance, he crushed her lips with his, emitting a low guttural sound when her hips rose. He circled his arm around her back, speaking into the hollow of her throat.

"Thank God we're married, then."

Catching a breath, she parted her lips; stared into his eyes. "And…if we were not?"

He suddenly released her, lowering his gaze. "Then we would bear our burdens alone, wouldn't we? Not speak to one another for fear of saying the wrong words."

She felt him slide away from her, loosening his touch, dimming his passion. Skin sliding against skin, away. "I am sorry, Will," she murmured, crossing her arms over her chest. Cool and bereft. "Truly."

He shook his head slightly; he knew what she apologized for and why, though she had already done so. The past could not be changed, not become undone. He turned back to look at her. He could not help but love her. Love and hate—so similar at times. So indistinguishable when they became one in the same in moments of unbridled passion. Passion—was that all that remained to bridge the gap between disregard and understanding? Passion. All emotions unleashed through manifestations of lust in the stead of verbal communication. Rational, rational? Was any of it rational? Regarding her with a laden expression, he touched her hair. Decidedly irrational. But what was the use of quarrelling—she so stubborn and hot-headed and he so influenced by her nature yet so firm and possessing the upper hand when temperance snapped. And then unwilling to listen to one another—estrangement. Her reckless nature, inducing her to walk about the likes of Tortuga for God's sake—it infuriated him. Yes, she was flawed, _he _was flawed. She, so capricious a creature and he so naturally drawn to level-headedness despite being continually thwarted in his efforts. Thwarted, so that he opted for rash behaviour in turn. The sea, the pirate in his blood—it altered him. He was no longer a blacksmith, never was. He had yet to discover his true identity, his purpose. But—

She touched his wrist; she had been whispering penitence.

He loved her, needed her desperately. Ever since she appeared by his side like an angel those many years ago when they made the voyage to England. She had stolen his medallion, and thus had stolen his heart.

_You own my heart_, he had said to her in the garden. Own it still, she did. Always. Elizabeth.

"Will, please. Say something."

He peered into her desperate face, the face he had known and loved since childhood. "None of that, none of what's happened matters anymore. You're forgiven." His features tensed. "Though if you continue to make your choices alone, how can I trust you?"

He had her, stabbed her through the heart with her own venom. They held one another's gazes, unwavering. Finally, in a whisper, she responded, "You can't."

His eyes widened. In disappointment, in longing to hear different words. Not those words. He began to turn away, lifting away from her, but she held his arm in a firm grasp.

"And so I _won't _make my choices alone." The conviction in her voice made him turn back. "I _can't_." A tear sparkled in her eye. "Because I can't come that close to losing you again."

Losing him. He understood what she was referring to—all that had occurred in Port Royal. So long ago it seemed, though in reality not two months gone. But not merely what had transpired recently. Before then. The Isle de Muerta, when he had been led to believe that she was engaged to be married to Commodore Norrington. Tricked him. For his sake, yes, but…but he had been prepared to accept her as lost to him for all eternity. He had begun to believe that it was all a ruse: her forward glances, her insistences that he call her by her Christian name.

Until they had kissed on the battlement. And then, miraculously, they had declared marriage vows in a small ceremony. A ceremony that seemed unreal, that had gone by too fast. Without having yet enjoyed their new identities as husband and wife. It had been hushed, been made into a scandal, where social status determined what was decorous and what was not.

Yet here upon the seas, departed from that structured porcelain world…it was just Will and Elizabeth, nothing more. No identity. Just two souls lost upon the waves. No identity…

"Oh, Elizabeth," he sighed, a thousand emotions rising to the surface. He held her to his chest, kissing her forehead. "You won't risk losing me again; nor I you."

She lifted her face. "How can you be certain?"

He smiled, catching her unawares. "My darling, did you forget that we no longer exist?"

A feeling of dark relief swept over her; her feelings of the previous midnight, feelings of endless possibility that invigorated and imbalanced her, returned.

He perceived her mood. He kissed her, tasting her lightly.

She uttered a soft laugh, deepening the kiss before pulling away. "You perceive this as a blessing, our _death_."

He regarded her with a raised eyebrow. "You _don't_? We have nothing to fear. We can finally be…." He slid his hands down her arms, taking her hands. "…together."

She smiled, but there was something hidden behind the glimmer in her eyes. "Yes, we're free. But…" She looked away. "I'm worried about my father. Out of all the people I despise…I could never despise him."

He urged her to look at him. "I understand, Elizabeth, of course. But I fear there is naught to be done. We have been declared dead. There is no possible way we could return to Port Royal—"

She gave a beleaguered sigh, rubbing her neck. "Yes, yes I know. We can never go back. I just wish—a part of me wishes…" She faltered. "If only I could see him once more. Apologize, tell him the truth."

He drew close, his forehead touching hers. "I know."

She closed her eyes, resting her hands against his chest.

"Perhaps one day…" he resumed, grasping at straws.

"Perhaps," she replied, a note of finality in her tone which implied that their ties to the past were severed. However painful, however many regrets.

His hands weaved across her back. "There was nothing more you could have done. You're not in the wrong, Elizabeth."

She opened her eyes, thinking in silence. "Maybe not." She lifted her forehead, strands of hair falling over her face. "But what if I…have wronged _you_?"

He frowned, pushing the hair from her eyes. "What could possibly make you think that you have? Pushed me to the limits of aggravation, yes, but…"

She put a hand to his lips. "I allied with Jack without your knowledge."

He furrowed his brows, brushing her hand away. "I understand that completely. If you had not, then—"

"I was devising my own plan to counter Greys' blackmail."

He steadied his gaze. "We both were."

"No, no," she insisted. "It's not what you think."

He expelled a breath, looking incredulous. "Then _what, _Elizabeth?"

Her voice was quiet, and she did not meet his eyes. "You were going to die, Will, whether you acquiesced to his plan or not." She paused, her eyes drifting across the room. "It was either the noose or the British Royal Navy. The Navy would provide you a good livelihood, raise your status. If you died while thus employed…" A shudder passed through her. "Well, you would have died a death of honour, rather than one of disgrace in the noose."

"Why are you saying these things?"

"Let me…finish," she requested, still keeping her eyes averted. "In order to keep you alive, to ensure that you received the better end of the deal, I was willing to sacrifice myself."

"Elizabeth!"

She finally turned to him, her expression vehement. "I would have _married _the bastard, had I not been so selfish as to want you, which drove me to the desire to kill him." She spoke in a rapid breath, panting.

"Jesus, Elizabeth," he said, so forceful as if to suggest his anger. He abruptly took her face in his hands, kissing her. "You are the most unselfish being…" He kissed her again, silencing her protesting sighs. "…I have known. Selfish? Selfish to want to kill him; selfish to seek information in the worst of pirate ports—no." He weaved his hands through her hair, resting on her shoulders. "Forever reckless, yes. But never selfish, my love."

She released a breath, blinking, blinking into the sun. "Reckless."

His lips lifted in a subtle smirk. "Infuriatingly so."

She studied his face, serious, and then slipped from his arms. Hovering above him, she pushed his chest so that he lay beneath her. She was silent as she traced her hands over his chest, his abdomen, his muscles contracting in response to her touch.

"Liz?"

She flicked her eyes towards his, meeting his unfocused, inquiring gaze.

She gave him a soft smile and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture seemed strangely modest. "I suppose there's nothing more to say on that point."

He grasped her wrists, feeling restless from her teasing touch. "What…point?"

Her smile grew and she lowered herself, her chest flush against his. "Our past. It doesn't exist. All we have left to do is—"

She broke off as he flipped her, sliding his hands along her bent legs. He kissed her knee and then captured her gaze. Anticipation hung in the air.

"We…" she faltered, closing her eyes. "We need to decide where to go…now. Unless…" Her breath caught as his touch resumed. She swallowed. "Unless we sail…_ah_…forever. I only wonder what Jack has in store. Leverage…." Her words were becoming muddled. "Is a definite concern." Her eyes flew open as she felt his breath on her face.

"You're worried about Jack's plans right now?"

Coherent thought evanesced in an instant. "Kiss me."

He looked down upon her with warmth in his gaze. "Willingly."

The late morning sun increased in strength, shining into the room.

Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;  
This bed thy centre is, these walls thy sphere.*

* * *

* "The Sun Rising" by John Donne.


	20. Recovery: Part II

Progressing Against Propriety

* * *

The sun shifts in a gradual ascent to a noontime peak in the azure skies, beams of glistening amber and white casting dapples of light upon the crests of the sea. Sails expand and billow, lines cut, and weigh anchor. She is off, gliding through the water without effort in her ethereal glory. Smooth and straight as an arrow, her movement is imperceptible, unfelt by the occupants of her bowels. She is strong, she is powerful, she careens and gains speed with an air of mystique. She is the _Pearl_. She is guided by a reverential hand yet seems to choose her own path. Edging ever closer to the horizon, ever closer to freedom. Sweet and splendiferous freedom, the capstone of piracy. Zesty, the taste of freedom was in the air as the _Pearl_ abandoned the shallows for deeper waters.

There was movement on her deck. A Captain at her helm, crew members strewn about. Movement too within. A cabin door creaking with matched footsteps. A hand upon the wood of the door belonging to the tall and muscular figure in tunic, belt and trousers, booted. The essence of a pirate in appearance. Will Turner, son of a pirate. Not so much different from the father before him. He held open the door and a woman revealed herself, stepping into his side. She was his treasure—fancy that—as apparent by the gleam of veneration in his eyes as he regarded her. She offered him a smile. He absorbed her aspect, and placing an arm about her shoulders, he remarked,

"You've taken to wearing my clothing, I see."

She looked down upon herself, surveying the wardrobe to which he referred, a wardrobe not unlike his own. "So I have. Do you wish that I didn't?"

He briefly touched the open collar of the shirt she donned. "No…" His hand slipped lower, grazing her skin, amply revealed by the shirt's cut. "Though it has the potential to drive me to distraction." His voice acquired an edge.

She placed her hands on her hips, raising a mischievous eyebrow. "How so?"

"Well." He dropped both of his hands to her waist, drawing her closer. "Your scent lingers after you've worn them…when I next put them on, it's as if your shadow is next to my skin."

She smiled, stepping into his frame. "And that drives you to distraction?"

His breath fanned her face as he murmured, soft and low, "You have no idea."

Taking advantage of their proximity, she kissed him decadently, savouring the feel of his lips before breaking away. "It does the same to me, you know."

He graced her with a subtle smile, winding an arm around her back. "Does it?"

"Oh, yes," she answered, nipping his lip. "But I much prefer having your skin next to mine rather than your shadow."

"I see," he murmured. "We'll have to remedy this situation, then."

Her expression was expectant as she gave the quick utterance, "Tonight."

His eyes twinkled. "Well…"

"What?" she asked, a hint of disappointment in her eyes.

"There is one condition."

"Which is?"

He brought his lips close to her ear, pressing his lips to her neck in a whisper. "The door must be latched."

She shivered, letting out a soft trill of laughter. "Killjoy."

He chuckled against her skin, kissing the sensitive area once more. "Reveller."

She inhaled at the lingering caress of his lips. "I fear that term applies to us _both_, darling; sorry."

He looked up, smirking.

"But I agree to the condition."

"Good."

She kissed him once more, lightly, content. "It is lovely, isn't it?"

"What, love?" he asked, taking her hand as they walked through the passageway.

"Not being hassled and heckled, as we would be if…"

He turned, meeting her gaze. "If things were still the same."

She nodded.

"Yes." He was silent then for a moment, then resumed, "To the galley?"

They made their way to the said room, falling into a comfortable silence as they selected victuals from amongst the multitude of food and drink spread across the dining table. The rewards of piracy, the results of pillage and plunder, were endless. Never would any person aboard the ship be in want of food and drink, not to mention other amenities such as soap or spare clothing. Elizabeth raised her brows at the notion of it. Means were dubious, surely, but were justified by the ends. Weren't they? She shrugged it off. Those who were victim to the raids had it coming to them. The crude and pretentious upper-crust were those she had in mind. She failed to remember that she had once been a part of that "upper-crust"; that, technically, she was still a part of it. Or had she ever really been? Had she merely been moulded to an identity that was not her own? Just like Will, moulded to the life of a blacksmith, when his true purpose bore a greater magnitude. Outcasts, the both of them. Trying to fit somewhere else; rather, trying _not _to fit. Trying to find their balance upon the open sea. Piracy was an attractive alternative. Well, for her. For her since childhood. For Will, always—it was in his blood, it was an indelible part of him. Was this their destiny, then?

She took a leisure bite of an apple. Their destiny. But then, where did Jack come into play in all of this? Surely, it could not be that easy. How could they expect to jump on Jack's bandwagon scot-free? She lowered the apple to the table. Could they reap the rewards without having partaken in the labour?

"This is such a feast. It could support the crew for a year's time," she voiced her subsequent thoughts.

Will looked over the table at her, his own partial reverie broken. "Indeed." He gathered her intimation immediately. "We're part of the crew, you know."

She leant over the table on her elbows. "Yes, but doubtless that entails more than late mornings and a general captive existence."

He frowned slightly as he sat in a chair at the head of table and beckoned her with, "Come here."

She walked round, and when she reached him, he pulled her into his lap. Tracing her jaw, he gazed at her in a thoughtful manner before speaking. "After what we've been though, I would think that we'd take advantage of being captives for a while." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing her neck to sweep her collarbone, his gaze laden, as if to emphasize the merit of such an existence.

She stammered under his attentions. "Why…yes. That's not what I meant."

He dropped his hand away.

"I'm just a bit worried. I feel as if we're not in the clear; not yet."

He kissed her. "Don't worry, Elizabeth. The worst is over."

She mumbled a soft assent, feeling comforted by his propinquity. With a sigh, she laid her head against his chest and they remained nestled and still, the weaving motion of his hand across her back lulling her.

He finally spoke, a single word. "Elizabeth."

She looked up. His tone—nothing of particular significance, just the common cadence of his voice—captured her. She drew a hand up to touch his face, beautiful and perfect and so…

Something about the sea, something about their shared burdens that had left a mark upon him...

Steadfast, she kissed him, struck with a ravenous hunger to feel him, to taste him, to drink in this _Will; _this person who had always possessed her; this person who was more beautiful in the current time than ever before. This William Turner who was passionate and roguish and yet empathetic and sober, who revealed emotion through a glance or a touch, who laid all bare…This Will Turner free from the inhibitions of society.

He deepened the kiss, enthusiastic, craving _her_—the one forever out of his reach. After years of languishing, this was the feast. The drought inundated with a flood. His fingers kneaded her ribcage, itching at the barrier posed by his shirt. The shadow next to his skin. He dropped his hands lower, lifting the hem of the shirt from her belt to feel her skin. Perhaps "tonight" could arrive quicker. He felt her gasp against his mouth as his thumbs chafed her hipbones. Perhaps even the condition of a latched door could be crossed out

A sound, like the knocking of wood, issued from somewhere beyond. She inhaled sharply, freezing against him, her eyes coming into focus. "Someone's coming," she muttered hoarsely. The sound issued once more, louder. And then.

"Hmm, hmm. Leave you two alone for a second and yer off shagging like rabbits."

Abruptly, he removed his hands. She drew her eyes away from his and pulled down her shirt, shakily extracting herself, and then stood, smoothing out her clothing and staring at their interruptor with a cool air.

"Jack," she greeted after a moment, her voice stiff and a bit unnatural.

He tipped his hat, walking into the room. "Mi'lady. I would go for the standard _how-do-you-fare_, but the answer to that is quite obvious." He smirked in reaction to their flustered glares.

Will leant forward in the chair. "What's happening? How long are we in Tortuga?" he asked, his focus coming to the situation at hand.

"Ah. Well, you see William, we've already cast off of her shores."

Will and Elizabeth exchanged a glance.

"Have we? Well…that's unexpected," Will responded.

Jack's eyes glinted. "Is it so, really?"

Elizabeth crossed her arms and muttered, "So that's the end of my questing."

Will's eyes flashed to her, hard. "Thank God for that."

Jack regarded the subtle exchange with interest. "Something you're not telling me, Turners?"

The two looked back at Jack, saying naught.

"For I have some information that would definitely, without question, interest you. But this is a two-way street."

Will rose from the chair, taking his wife's hand imperceptibly. He looked at the pirate with a coarse expression. "Since when have the rules changed, Jack? All along, it's been a one-way street with you."

Jack circled them. "No need to get testy, mate. But if you want to play that way…we'll see who's willing to forfeit information first, shall we?"

Elizabeth flicked her eyes to Will, unsure. He grasped her hand tighter in a gesture of reassurance. He had the upper-hand again. How it had happened, she could not fathom. With _her_, with her father, with Jack…of late, confidence had taken the place of timidity; the effectiveness of his commanding air equalled that of her saucy tongue.

He spun around, keeping holding of her hand. "But you'll do as you please either way, Jack. It's always what _you _want, after all."

Jack frowned. "Boy, you're beginning to sound like your father."

Will's comportment faltered at those words. "In what way—saying the truth?"

Jack smiled. "In being so sure that you know me; in your utter conviction." He ticked his hand to him. "In being so sure of _yourself_ that you're willing to strike a bargain with _me_."

Will rolled his shoulders back. "I'll only strike a bargain if there's a good chance I'll come out the better off. Not without negotiation, of course."

Jack threw his head back and laughed. "And this coming from the boy who claimed a habit of avoiding familiarity with pirates."

Will's face relaxed into an easy smile. "It seems that was an impossibility because…" He looked about. "Here we are."

"Yes," Jack agreed. "Here we are."

They regarded one another, continuing on in silent conversation, the words unsaid more audible than the words spoken aloud; the intimation behind the words already spoken of greater value than the words themselves. They seemed to reach a state of amicability, of understanding with one another.

"What do you know, Jack?" Elizabeth interrupted the lapse of silence, feeling restless.

He turned to her, his eyes glittering with mischief. "Why don't you tell me first where you were last night?"

Her eyes widened. Had he seen her? Surely not…

"Aboard."

He cocked his head. "Really? I could've sworn I saw a lad with your striking features out o' the corner of me eye at the _Faithful Bride._ Unless I was mistaken."

"Elizabeth…" Will muttered in her ear.

She stepped forward. "Fine. So I left the ship."

"You ought to keep her locked up mate—no telling what trouble she gets into when you're not looking."

"The point _is_…," Elizabeth enunciated, interrupting them both. "…I know what happened at Port Royal; I know all of it and I intend to use it to my advantage to get what I want."

"Pirate," Jack quipped with a smile. "And what do you want?"

"Revenge." She spoke the word at the tip of her tongue. She felt Will's hand slip from her own; she had surprised him. Who now had the upper-hand?

"Admiral and Lieutenant are dead, Lizzie. What more do you want?" Jack drawled, though his manner was serious.

She averted her eyes, pursing her lips. "It's not enough."

"Not enough?" Jack exclaimed. Excitement was building up behind his eyes.

She met his gaze, steady and steeled. "We all want guaranteed freedom, don't we? Well, Will and I are willing to gain freedom for you, if you do the same for us."

Jack circled thoughtfully, stroking his chin. "What do ye have in mind?"

"Letters of Marque," Elizabeth answered, as if it were a matter of course.

Jack made a face. "_Not _my first choice."

Elizabeth laughed. "Then, what is—immortality?"

Jack looked serious, saying naught. "Even so, how would you presume to come by these…Letters of Marque?"

She smiled. "I'm presumed to be dead. I use that as leverage, persuasion."

It was Jack's turn to laugh. "And what—act the part of a vengeful spirit?"

She circled around Jack, her eyes glittering. "Is that so far-fetched, compared to your dreams of immortality?" She paused, staring him down. "Who was it that spent her childhood exploring the nooks and crannies of the naval headquarters? Who was it that ingratiated herself with the lords and ladies of high society; with those important persons of revered social stations? Who was it that was known to have died at the hands of militia scum?"

"A pirate since the beginning, were you?" Jack remarked.

The silent conversation between them ensued, another bond of understanding. Two against two.

"Elizabeth, you can't be planning to return to Port Royal," Will addressed her.

She raised her eyes, acknowledging his presence, momentarily forgotten in her exchange with Jack. She merely looked at him, her eyes flashing, as if she planned to inform him of her true intent once they were out of Jack's company.

It was Jack's turn to interrupt the silent conversation. "It _is _a shame that you couldn't attend your own funeral."

Will and Elizabeth both looked at him, smiling in spite of themselves. Dark humour never lost on those seeking liberty by any means possible. A mutual link of understanding reached between the three of them.

"Yes, quite a shame," Will rejoined. "But why stay for the after-effects when the fun had already been had?"

Elizabeth looked into his eyes—was there a spark of bloodlust there? Fun. Truly, freedom was gained at all costs. Possessions were won at all costs. She looked between the two men, the two pirates. His treasure was the _Pearl_; his treasure was herself. A gunshot in the heart; a sword in the back. All to claim what was wanted for one's own. The notion made her shudder. But was that not what she was doing, in turn? Playing tricks of mischief and persuasion; not yielding; utilizing her wiles to the utmost to gain what _she _wanted.

"So we have an accord?"

Their resumed voices broke into her thoughts.

"Agreed."

"Agreed."

Jack gave a deep bow and sauntered towards the doorway. "We ascend into deeper waters. Heading as yet undetermined." He walked through the doorway, turning back slightly to add, "Resume shagging, if you like."

"Bugger off, Jack," Will called after him, his irritation at the pirate's lewdness dimming when Elizabeth grasped his arm.

They stared at one another, words lost, conversation through the eyes only. Elizabeth reached up, untying the bandanna which held back his locks. The cloth fell through her fingers onto the floor. His curls came loose about his shoulders. In a moment, he had her pressed against the doorway. Bloodlust in his eyes? It was tantalizing close to burning passion. His hand thrust beneath the shirt, that damned shadow, and he felt her skin, warm and golden. His fingers crept up her ribs, grazed her breasts. She lifted her knee to his waist, burrowing her hands in his hair and whimpering, resisting his lips for fear that a single kiss would cause them to abandon all sense of propriety. As if that mattered any longer.

"Will," she groaned.

"Mmm…?"

"I don't want…I don't want…"

He was burning; she was burning.

"What?" he hissed.

"I don't want your shadow; I want all of you," she gasped.

He took her into his arms, kissing her before they were lost and consumed in a fire that set the room aflame, skin only cooled by the brine sprayed by the sea; the rocking ship, the glorious, salty taste of piracy.


	21. Recovery: Part III

Progressing Against Propriety

A/N: The Muse was kind enough to pay me a visit; I finally understand that far-reaching symbolism inherent in COTBP. Such a beautiful film in its characters and language and perfect subtlety. Enjoy :)

* * *

The sea grew calm and dark come evening, the ship skimming her dips and crests with the subtlety of a passing phantom, all grey and stealth. Candles lit the ship's interior, creating a genial ambience of all that was warm and tranquil to diminish the anxieties and fears of the night.

The glow of a candle emanating like a beacon from a port window faded away into darkness with the drawing of a curtain. The coarse maroon fabric rustled. The wisp of flame flickered; a hint of aromatic smoke curled in the air. A slender hand reached out for the candle; hot wax dripping onto the wrist; a soft curse fleeing rose lips. Another hand intercepting, taking the candle away, setting it upon a table with haphazardness; it slid across the wood, forgotten. The light shrunk in reaction as if repentant. All attention was now centred, the warmth and the energy transported to two bodies, touching hands. The wax rubbed away, leaving a faint crimson mark but not a burn. A subtle exchange of a smile, forgoing the fuss over a meagre candle. The light was now cast upon the back wall, leaving the remainder of the room cast in dusky shadow. The two bodies, the touching hands, abided in the heart in the room, the eyes of one reserved for the eyes of the other. The gentleman and his ladylove—the one tending to the other, healing wounds old and new. Memories and flames rekindled, drawn from times long gone but never forgotten. Times when they were merely lowborn boy and wellborn truelove. Different times, different circumstances, different identities. But feelings remain the same. A man and wife, easing one another's pains as is common; suddenly, thrust back into the past, a not so distant past, when both were as far from matrimony as possible.

He touched her wrist, favouring the red area with a cloth doused in salve. Then he turned her hand over, surveying for further damage, looking at her palm. He traced a faint scar there; looked at his own scar on his matching hand. In so doing, his touch ceased.

"Don't stop." Her voice echoed like beauty in the dim room.

He looked up; she smiled, tucking her damp, honey hair behind her ears.

"Do you remember? Below deck?" she whispered, her eyes dark and intent on his.

His smiled in turn and found her hand once more. "How could I forget, Miss Swann?"

She seemed to glow, basking in the taste of the yore. "Mr. Turner, I have not been called _that _in some time."

He entwined their fingers, his eyes dancing. "What have you been called since, then?" His voice was deep and quiet; it sent warmth through her veins.

"Oh, many things," she responded with a sigh. "But I prefer just one title."

"Oh?" he murmured with a nuance of inquiry. He circled to stand behind her, his hands slipping out of her own to rest upon her shoulders. "I'll hazard a guess at which title." He squeezed her shoulders. "Hmm…Miss Swann—no. Darling, Dearest, Lady…"

She shook her head at each of these.

"No? Well, I'm running out of options." His light chuckle tickled the back of her neck. "Miss Turner…"

"You're close," she breathed, a smile ghosting her lips.

"Am I?"

She could hear the smirk in his voice.

"How about…Mrs. Turner?"

"Ah, closer still."

He let out a breath, as if in disappointment. "I thought I was golden with that one." His breath was closer, at her ear. "Perhaps one more go…Elizabeth." His voice dipped lower, sultry.

She could feel his lips, he would nearly kiss her, but when the sensation was gone, she spun around to face him. His hands went to her waist, holding her close against him.

"Elizabeth Turner," he murmured, the quality of his voice such that it made her weaken. It was far from the timid 'Miss Swann' of their youth. "So, why did you give Barbossa my name as yours?"

She recalled; she had not told him then; had claimed ignorance. She touched his coarse jaw, tracing down to his chest—what she had longed to do _then_, during that flickering moment of intimacy below deck in the midst of cursed Aztec gold and revelations on that memorable voyage into the world of piracy. And again. History repeating itself, with greater results the second time around.

"You know perfectly well why."

He placed his hand atop hers, stilling her movement. She met his eyes; he frowned a little.

"Did you _really_?"

Her gaze simmered. "Of course I did."

A shadow of relief passed over his face. She drew her eyes down, brief. "I can see why you may have thought otherwise; I'm sorry."

He lifted her chin. "Don't be. Love is delicate."

Sincerity consumed her expression. "Will, I should have told you _then _that I loved you. But how could I…"

He pressed a finger to her lips. "Could you have, in that moment, even knowing it to be true? It would not have made a difference; does not make any difference now."

"Yes, I know," she said softly, assuaged though still somewhat discomfited. "I never liked being given roses as a token of affection."

"What?" He looked at her, perplexed by the sudden statement.

She sighed, bringing her hands up and linking her fingers behind his neck. "Roses signify love; love then, is sweet and fragrant and yet covered in thorns."

He gazed at her for a moment, pondering her words. "Well, that is apt."

She shook her head, stepping closer to breathe in his scent. "No, I don't think so. You never gave me roses."

He laughed, enjoying the seeming triviality of the topic she had breached. "Then what did I give you to signify love?"

She smirked. "Nothing of terrible consequence. Only this." She held up her hand, revealing the band of gold round her finger.

A hush of gravity came over him. "Oh."

"Love is like gold—pure and true, it brings richness to the lives of those who encounter it. And yet it is malleable, subject to change." Her eyes gleamed, becoming softer. "But it is strong and can endure anything; thus, everlasting."

His gaze grew laden, and in the interim of silence following the beauty of her words, he took that hand and touched that ring, shining in the faint candlelight. He then smiled softly, a crease at his eyes as he averted them towards her chest and neckline. Bare, missing the one adornment that used to grace that dear skin.

"You took my love before it was available for the taking."

She had touched her chest in response to the direction of his gaze, confused as she searched his eyes, which rose to meet hers.

"The medallion," he elucidated quietly. "And so you had a claim on me from the beginning."

"Oh," she murmured, her lips parting with the hint of a smile. "That was not altogether fair of me. I didn't even give you a chance."

He sighed heavily, a gleam of unadulterated tenderness permeating his countenance. His voice was low. "No, love. And thus I failed to heed the words of those who claimed I had a fool's chance of winning the heart of the governor's daughter." His smiled broadened; he brushed his thumbs across her cheeks, his gaze intent. "The truth is, I had no chance at all; it was gone and all was decided once you took that medallion from its place against my heart, to yours."

She expelled a quavering breath and he kissed her lips, catching her in his arms as she melted into his form. His scent wreathed around her; the feel of him inducing nostalgia. The gold medallion kept locked and hidden away until brought to light; replaced with the gold ring. Permanent. Love no longer unsteady and uneven, but reciprocated with identical symbols. Gold not merely _on_ the skin but burning _through_ the skin, shining in the eyes, resulting in a tang upon the tongue. From childhood, love as metallic, moulded and shaped as if through the forging endeavours of a blacksmith. The heart wounded with every clash of the anvil; but made stronger too with each hammering infliction. Love transferred from one pair of hands to the other, the scales imbalanced as one possessed the token of gold while the other did not. Love evaporated, hanging in the air, in question then. Until finally love meets and intersects, entwining in a bond of mutualism. Love: not duplicitous like the rose, the fickle and deceptive rose, caressing at one moment and pricking at the next. No…love is…decidedly…in a different realm altogether, in and of itself.

The sheets were cool against her back as he lay her down. She grasped at the lapels of his shirt, her winsome eyes conveying more than words ever need convey. He smiled, easing himself beside her. His hand slipped underneath the loose tunic she donned, coming to lay flat upon her middle. He caressed her skin, gently, keeping his eyes on hers. Passionate, full of promise.

"Elizabeth," he spoke. "I want to discuss something."

She placed her hand over his, her brows faintly furrowed in question.

He leant upon his side, regarding her with a thoughtful though probing expression. "What do you mean by suggesting a Letter of Marque to Jack?" He paused then, waiting for her answer.

"It was all a ruse."

"Was it?" he countered, raising his brows in scepticism.

Her fingers toyed with his, stalling. "Yes…I want him to believe that we would be willing to put ourselves at risk. That way, it's as if we're playing into his hands."

"Hmm," he murmured, glancing down at their entwined fingers. "He certainly fell for the decoy. _If _that is all it is."

She drew her hand away, looking upon him with sudden indignation. "What are you saying, Will?"

He met her gaze, solid. "That you _do _intend to return to Port Royal, despite all common sense against it."

She looked away, huffing in exasperation as if to retort.

"I know you, Elizabeth," he insisted. "You can't abandon your father." His voice softened and he touched her chin, urging her to look at him. "Not when he has been on our side through all of this."

Her eyes flashed. "_All_?"

He nigh glared at her. "All that matters. You must see that, or why the urge to go back?" His eyes were pained, as if he were reliving a sliver of a nightmare.

Abruptly, she touched his face, her palm against his cheek. No; she could not witness his pain, pain that was supposed to have gone; why did it reappear?

"He's my father, Will," she swallowed hard. "I love him. What will become of him—alone and vulnerable to the likes of Admiral Greys?"

He frowned. "You fear the worst? That his position as Governor will be threatened?"

She gave a small nod.

His lips set in a line. He understood the root of her sentiments; understood her pain. His family had been ripped from him before his tenth year; he could not comprehend the parental bond beyond that point. She still had her father. Who was he to demand that she sever that precious bond; leave her father to the wolves that took advantage of naïve trust? And yet…and yet…

He looked up at her. Her eyes were large; pools of brilliant, damp gold. "Elizabeth, I understand the burden you bear, but I fear that cause is lost."

She smiled faintly. "Not if there is but one fool willing to fight for it."

His eyes sparked, his interest piqued.

"Jack," they murmured in chorus.

She smiled broadly, moving to push him beneath her as she straddled him. "In time, Jack will set sail for Port Royal, thinking he is acting of his own accord; he will want to ensure that we hold up our end of the bargain."

"When in fact…"

"When in fact, he is _our_ leverage."

"And what happens once at Port Royal?"

She slid her hands along his chest. "Oh, only the worst for Jack and the best for us."

He looked at her, astounded. "You really feel comfortable betraying his confidence?"

She leant down, her lips grazing his. "Take what you can, give nothing back. Right?"

He groaned. Puzzled and…aroused by her all at once. "You are an indecipherably clever woman."

At her soft laugh, he turned her. She lay beneath him, under his influence. With care, taking all the time in the world, he ripped her tunic in two from the neck downwards, revealing her figure inch by inch. Her breath quickened; she closed her eyes, expecting his touch; surprised when it did not come. He gazed at her. Her cheeks heated beneath those eyes, that intent, that…vague reverence intermingling with desire.

"Will?" There was an edge to her tone, an edge of uncertainty.

His eyes, dark as obsidian, found hers. "You are a beguiler at best and a pirate at worst, Elizabeth."

Her voice was quiet. "Perhaps…it is the other way around."

His eyes dilated, and leaning down, he crushed her lips with his, drinking from her as though parched. She clung to him, arching against him, willing to accept his touch after the onslaught of his eyes.

"Elizabeth." His voice was sharp as his lips pulled away from hers, his breath ragged. His eyes were heavy, brimming. "I refuse to be like my father."

She moaned softly, twisting beneath him. She was breathless, uncomprehending. "What on Earth do you _mean_, Will?"

His hands came to rest upon her abdomen. "He may have been a good man, a good pirate. But never was he a good father."

She looked up, her breath catching.

His fingers traced her skin idly. "Whatever happens, whether this child be borne of the sea or the land, I shall not abandon it." He kissed her, gentle this time, lingering. "I shall not abandon _you._"

"Will," she whispered, overwhelmed by the shift in mood, the shift in significance. The burden that he bore, the unwarranted sense of guilt. The duty to live up to an image for which he had no model, no guidance. She looked at him searchingly, yearning to find the words to say; yearning to reassure him. That their burdens were not so different; that neither of their causes were lost, not truly. That they were one in the same; that she loved and trusted him so fully…he possessed her soul and without him she could not…

She kissed him, her hands on either side of his face, urging him down to her. "I love you," she breathed as he rested his forehead against hers, looking into her eyes. A sound escaped his throat; his features calmed, lost in a veil of passion, and he enveloped her, the touch of lips and hands erasing all misgivings, all pains.

Souls recovering, they soared upon the wings of the sea, progressing towards territory as yet unchartered. The future hung uncertain before them, and yet they were prepared for the confrontation.

* * *

A/N: The next chapter will speed things up a bit.


	22. Homebound: Part I

Progressing Against Propriety

* * *

Amethyst hues muted by fissures of pink and yellow painted the broad canvass of the dawn sky. A wintry wind and a halo of mist skimming the sea and chasing the tails of gulls spiralling higher and higher into the firmament. Further and further into the swirls of paint, colours bleeding into one another. Violet burnishing into blue for but a moment, missing the mark, dipping into mauve again before dropping into a realm of grey. Dismal, the charcoal coils churned with a groan of thunder. The kaleidoscopic, clear clime failed to withstand the invasion of laden clouds. The mist augmented to an unfavourable fog. The waves gathered momentum, the white caps apparent. The winds increased, followed by a dappling of rain, soon pelting at a slanted angle. The world seemed encapsulated in a miasma that shunned all light. A miasma foretelling a storm.

A ship drifted in the midst of the damp greyness, sailing straight and true despite the sudden agitation of the waters. Will Turner stood at the wheel, hands already slick upon the wood, eyes blinking rapidly against the oncoming rain. From midnight until dawn, voluntarily weathering a stark, black night and thus confronted with a storm. It would be his duty to carry the _Pearl _through unharmed. A fortnight of such shifts at the wheel and naught but a brisk breath of wind just before sunrise, absent even a speckle of rain. A fortnight of idleness, absent any sign of danger, absent any hint of ambush from trailing merchant vessels. Until this dawn, when the exhaustion in his limbs made him fit to drop. It was wearing on him; not the nightly vigilance alone but the anxiety.

After hearing the news of their presumed death, they had gone on in a rather carefree manner, he and Elizabeth, revelling in the newfound sense of freedom by enjoying both late nights and late mornings. An occasional extended afternoon. All the while paying lip service to the Captain, so good as to give them shelter aboard his beloved _Pearl_, only planning to forfeit them as leverage at the last moment. The nerve of such a man—intolerable. Oh, but as the man said—it was a two-way street, was it not? Thus, it was only appropriate that they envision their own leverage where Jack Sparrow ended up with the short end of the stick. They shared a dark laugh in the candlelit passageway, in the pantry, on the staircase. Rather carefree, indeed—not heeding responsibility or reality. He had pushed the shreds of doubt to the back of his mind. For he had never had this before—this uncompromised intimacy and leeway to do as he pleased. And anyway, she had stopped talking about the past or plans for the future—had stopped talking about much of anything, really. It seemed she was just as eager as he to take advantage of the situation, thus employing lips to other means than talking. Oh yes—they had not been on the proper post-marital holiday, so now was as good a time as ever. It was not paradise, no, but pretty well close to it. Oh yes—he had not known how good it could be, freedom. It was intoxicating, splendidly so, and he was happy, willing to forget everything that had plagued him with worry until the morning she rose with attacks of sickness. It sobered him, returned him to his rational and empathetic nature. And he saw her in a new light—not as the desirable temptress of his fantasies, but as his wife and mother of his child. Her condition was becoming apparent, to a greater degree with each passing day. They could not live in this perpetual limbo; something need be done; he had to secure their future. What were they really doing here anyway? Shouldn't they be striving for normalcy?

And then the sequence of bickering and apologizing and planning and bickering all over again began. She had revived the notion of returning to Port Royal with renewed vigour. He could not persuade her of the idiocy of the plan, nor did he wish to insult her, but when she acted in such a stubborn manner…And confronted by Jack, he was given the nightly shift at the wheel to "earn his place aboard the ship" and "prove his mettle." Thus, the past fortnight had fared.

Salt water stung in his eyes. He turned the wheel sharply to the right, but the prow only faced more ever-pressing fog. He groaned, trying to get his bearings. If this was not proof of his mettle…He was as good as Captain now; he had the authority to issue orders. He swung his head back, calling out, "Secure the rigging! Make ready to drop canvass, gents!"

"Belay that!" A voice responded with fervour from out of the mist.

"What?" Will murmured to himself in consternation. "She won't hold much longer!" He insisted, his voice rattling against the rain, the ship herself struggling against the strength of the tempest. "Drop canvass!"

A phantom of movement skewed his balance and he lost his grasp on the wheel, sending her reeling, prey to the churning seas.

"_Captain _gives orders on the ship," a voice barked in his ear.

He reached for the wheel once more, but was shoved back with the words, "Give her to me, Turner."

Jack Sparrow claimed authority of the wheel, veering left and into a solid shower of rain.

Anger rose within him—whether it was on account of his exhaustion or his desire to outdo Jack this once, he did not know—and he could not let him have the wheel like that, at the onset of a storm. "Don't be a bastard, Jack—I can get her through!" he panted.

"Lay off, whelp!" Jack shouted in response.

With the combination of wind and rain, he felt as if his head were to explode. "You've trusted me thus far. Just—"

"Aye, that I have!" Jack rejoined sharply. "But we're in hurricane territory now, boy, so stand aside for your own damn safety."

"Hurricane?" He was caught off guard. Surely not…

"Been brewin' for weeks now, and finally reached a head. Go below deck _now_—that's an order."

The sky howled and screeched, and the cries turned higher and sharper, a voice in their midst.

"What's happening?"

Both men turned about abruptly. Elizabeth stood there, cloaked and swaying with the ship's movement and looking positively like a drowned kitten.

"Elizabeth," Will called, his tone a mix of surprise and exasperation.

"Oh bugger. If it's not one, it's the both of you."

"Jack—" Her movement was stifled by Will's figure as he stepped in front of her; she called over his shoulder. "Jack, what the hell is going on?"

"Bloody hell!" Jack groaned, a wave towering over the deck and drenching them all. "Stow it and down below with the both of you!"

The ship lurched starboard as the waves heightened and the rainfall only increased with each passing moment. With a groan, Elizabeth stumbled backwards, her feet slipping upon the flooded deck.

"Jesus!" Will hissed, reaching out to catch her in his arms. Her fingers grasped at his shirt which clung to his skin. Their eyes met; they stared at one another through the heavy veil of rain. The storm whirling around them; the shouts and shrieks of the Captain and the bustling crew; the raging roar of the sea and the sky; the strength of their grasp amidst the deluge—the mounting tension of the past fortnight seemed to evanesce in an instant, replaced with something of the old flame of passion. He had not spoken to her, nor had she made any overtures to him in beyond four-and-twenty hours. But the reasons were immaterial now. A jolt sent them closer together. They tuned out the shouts surrounding them, the flying curses, and the terror of the storm. His countenance was gentle as he held her close, moving forward towards the stairs. "Let's go below—you need to get out of these wet clothes."

She was about to remind him that he too required a change of clothes, not to mention a solid rest after these sleepless nights—but that was a superfluous waste of words. Silent, they found their way through the ship's dark and cold bowels, found the doorway of the cabin, stumbled inside as the ship rocked and the door slammed shut behind them.

Pressed close, they looked at one another in the dimness, shivering and emitting panting breaths. Patches of mist materialized with each breath, the contrast of biting cold with neutral warmth. The sound of the pelting rain was deafening.

She coughed, breaking the silence. Will blinked, lifting his hand to remove a wet tendril of hair from her face. "Come on—you'll catch cold," he muttered.

She cleared her throat, nodding, and stepped away, shaking the heavy cloak to the floor. Her fingers moved to her waist, pushing down her slacks. Will glanced away; he heard the wet material chafing her skin. In a quick movement, he lifted his shirt over his head, and it fell in a heap on the floor. His skin tingled. For a fleeting moment, the hot baths and hearths of the Governor's mansion were desirable to him. He wondered if she shared the sentiment. But the material comforts of the mansion—of that old life—were empty and ephemeral. He bent to remove his boots. From where did true comforts emanate? A home of one's own, perhaps. Or even in one another's company.

"Ooh."

He turned at the sound of her voice. "You alright?" he asked.

She nodded; she was trembling. "Just cold."

He gave a subtle shake of the head and came over to her, touching the hem of her tunic. "I'll help you out of this."

Her hands, icy, covered his. "I can do it."

Their eyes met; he knew what this was about and he was unwilling to allow her stubborn nature to overrule this time.

"Come now, Elizabeth. Let me take care of this."

He had the tunic peeled away from her skin and over her head before she had time to protest. She pouted while he pulled at the sleeves, and she slipped her arms out. "Happy?" she muttered, her brow creasing.

In spite of himself, he smiled. Reaching across to the chair, he grabbed the blanket folded there and draped it over her shoulders. "Happier now."

She sighed, burrowing her fingers into the knitted warmth. "You ought to let me care for you now. You're exhausted." She had meant it as a retort, but it came as a mutter of soft concern. Damn her love and weakness.

As she moved, the blanker fell away a bit, revealing her bare figure. Unconsciously, he drew close, pressing his hands to her abdomen. Her skin was chilled in contrast to his hands, which had recovered their warmth. An incoherent mutter escaped her lips at his touch.

"You look…very…"

"Cold and horrible?"

He looked up into her face, awe and bemusement in his countenance. "Beautiful."

Her features softened. Damn her love and weakness. Oh, they could bicker, but it would never stick. "Oh, Will," she sighed. She lowered a hand, touching his.

"You're changing so fast."

"Yes," she responded. "Soon it'll be…" she paused, as if contemplation of the future was too much for the moment. "…the new year, and then…"

"Elizabeth," he interrupted softly. She looked up at him. "I want a home for us…one day." The future was too much to contemplate for him as well; everything was still so strange and uncertain.

She gave him a small smile. "Yes; one day." She knew the next words on his lips; he would question her desire to return to Port Royal. She put her fingers to his mouth. "I don't want to talk about it."

He uttered a heavy sigh, sinking down into the chair, overcome with sudden exhaustion. "Neither do I." His eyes closed briefly and he envisioned a fire and a bed of clouds, the pelting rain nonexistent.

* * *

His eyes fluttered open again when he felt some heavy material against his chest. He looked down, a blanket draped over him and a dry pair of slacks on his lap.

"Put those on, else you'll be catching cold. Then come to bed."

Groggy, his eyes wandered to the voice. She stood beside him, her hand at his shoulder having adjusted the blanket. She was wrapped up in what appeared to be knitted garments, her hair rung out and braided, stockings on her feet. He shook his head to clear it and complied, pulling on the slacks. How long had he been asleep? The tiredness made his head spin. As he stood, her hands went around his back to steady him. She guided him to the bed.

"What about…the hurricane?" he mumbled.

"Oh, we've passed through, love."

He looked up at her, confused. "What?"

With a frown, she pushed him down, fussing with the sheets. "We've made it through without a scratch. Some abuse to the hull, of course, but nothing demolished and no deaths. The other ship, though—didn't fare so well."

He pushed the sheets off, straining to focus his mind. "What? How did this happen? How did I…"

"You fell asleep for…an hour, I suppose. I was going to wake you; have you lie down; but I couldn't. You were so tired," she explained gently, easing her fingertips against his forehead and through his hair.

The feeling of grogginess returned. "We made it through?"

"Yes. Don't think about it now; go back to sleep."

"But…" He touched her wrist, stilling the weaving movement of her fingers. "What other ship?" He noticed her eyes change, and she glanced down, saying nothing for a moment.

"I'll tell you later; you need to sleep."

She stood from the bed, but he touched her arm, urging her to return.

"Elizabeth," he muttered as an entreaty.

She parted her lips in a realization; she knew what he wanted for it was what she wanted. Turning over the sheet, she lay beside him. Instantly, he wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling into her neck and breathing deeply.

She did not admit how much she missed it—sleeping close to him, feeling his warmth. She felt herself drifting to sleep when he whispered, "I love you," next to her skin.

* * *

The seas were possessed with an eerie calm after the storm. As if the rage was an expulsion of Nature's energies, the outcome of which was vapid tranquillity. The fog had cleared and the sky was a musty blue. Afternoon feeling the way morning should feel.

The crew lolled about the ship, taking to liquor. All was lax after a storm, all action stilled for a while as all reposed in a state of recovery.

Four persons sat at the long table in the galley conversing in, as yet, neutral tones. Captain Sparrow sat at one end; Will Turner at the other; Anamaria and Elizabeth at their respective man's right hands. Will and Elizabeth sipped from steaming cups of tea, the latter couple from flagons of rum. After staring at one another for minutes that seemed endless, Will instigated the conversation. He leant forward in his chair, fingering the rim of his cup while he cast an accusatory eye upon his addressee.

"Elizabeth tells me there was another ship involved in the hurricane."

Jack raised his eyebrows, his gaze drifting from the said woman to the speaker. "I see. And what did she mention about the matter?"

Will's eyes hardened. "She said I should confront you about it, Jack. You are the proper person to blame, after all."

"Ah," Jack responded, setting his flagon to the table with a resonant clunk. "Such an unkind notion—blame." His gaze drifted once more to Elizabeth, who pointedly averted her gaze and commenced drumming her fingers against the table. "Damn vixen of a woman you've got there, Turner."

"Don't you dare—"

"Oh, you'll see how shrewd I can be in time, Jack," she cut in, placing a hand on her husband's arm. "But now I think it's high time you were forthright about your lies."

Jack's eyes widened, an unknown light glimmering there. "T'was not so much a lie as an omission of fact. That's hardly the same thing," he attempted at recovery, delivering a winning smile.

Will countered with a smile of his own. "A lie is like a snowball; the longer it is rolled, the larger it is*."

Jack stood, staring at his attacker. "Wise words, William. But as you know, charity covers a multitude of sins**."

Will rose swiftly from the table, and if not for the women's interference, the men's game of intellectual besting would last nigh unto sundown.

"For Christ's sake, you act like bleedin' children when you very well know there's but one way to resolve this," Anamaria exclaimed, giving Jack a smarting shove.

Elizabeth stepped forward, her arms folded. "I agree. I would so love to inform my husband of your missteps, but the honour is yours."

All eyes, glaring and hot, were on Jack. Under such pressure, he was forced to surrender. He lowered his eyes, beginning a slow pace at the head of the table. "It seems…that the _Pearl _has been followed…for an extent of time that is neither here nor there…and that the said follower—a decidedly inferior vessel, in my approximation—happened to be caught in the brunt of the hurricane and, misfortune to him, was reduced to a muddle of splinters and no hope of survivors. So!" He snapped his eyes back up, noting that their glares had not dimmed. "Glad we've had that cleared up. Now…" He turned, intending to slip away, but his back clenched and his step faltered at the vicious invectives thrown at him.

"Easy, easy now…"

"What ship was this? I demand to know for whom our safety was trifled with."

Jack glanced at Will—angered, volatile Will, who even he dared not cross. He gave evasion another chance, nonetheless. "That's not of terrible importance…" He was stunned into momentary silence by a sting on the cheek. He touched the area, shying away from Anamaria's still-raised hand. "_Would you quit that, woman_?"

"Stop yer godforsaken paltering and there's a chance of that."

Will and Elizabeth shared a brief glance, knowing that there was more to this hostility between Jack and Anamaria than met the eye. Elizabeth raised a brow and then turned to Jack, expectant.

"Our mutual friend James Norrington decided to go it alone after the fleet foresaw the hurricane as too great a risk," he articulated, derision in his voice.

There was a clatter and the tea cups toppled over, the liquid pouring out to embed into the wood.

"You're telling me that you _knew _about Norrington, _knew _about the hurricane, and saw fit keep quiet—why? Hell, we could have died!"

"We could have died either way, whelp!" Jack snapped, leering at Will in distaste. "If you wanted to stay behind, you should have said so. Might as well have, seeing as your bonny lass is so intent to return to the godforsaken place."

Words burned hot and cold. Elizabeth relieved Will of the burden of a retort by trailing a hand down his arm, stepping forward, and sealing the exchange with a final word for Jack.

"I intend to gain legitimate freedom for you upon our return; you know this. I am not one to go back on my word." She strode around the table, extending her hand. "We survived the hurricane and evaded the Navy, that's all well and good. Though charity may cover your sins, it does not absolve you from blame."

Jack shrugged in irritation. "So I am blamed—nothing I've not borne before."

Elizabeth smiled stiffly. "So we have an accord?"

"I prefer parley."

She did not falter. "We go to Port Royal; you do as Will and I wish and thus gain your freedom."

Jack extended his hand, but as his fingertips brushed hers, he drew back. "Not true freedom, that."

"Freedom to seek your means of immortality, should you wish it," she insisted. She was unwilling to forfeit the deal.

"Fine," Jack muttered, and took her hand, a cold touch and withdrawal, and then both parties returned to their side of the battle line. Both sides were silent, wallowing in the stew they had created. After the moment had passed, Jack made the first move to exit the room, leaning to Will on his way out. "Now you know, and I hope you're satisfied."

Will opened his mouth, and shut it again, thinking any further baiting would be fruitless. Anamaria offered them an apologetic glance; they did not acknowledge it. Whose side had she chosen? Or did she stand in as mediator?

"Oh, by the by," Jack resumed as he reached the stairs. "The storm forced us to change course. It seems we're bound for Port Royal after all."

* * *

The ship felt quiet and scarce after Will and Elizabeth were left to themselves in the galley. The crew seemed nonexistent, not spurred into action as usual.

Finding bread and fruit, they sought to eat in silence, but nerves were too unsettled for eating and inclined to speech.

"I can't believe this," Will muttered, tearing at the bread and not feeling guilty about the pile of crumbs it left behind.

Elizabeth seemed absorbed in peeling away the fibrous part of an orange. "Oh, but we should have been prepared for this sort of thing to happen."

"I know. At least Fate is on our side."

She looked up, tilting her head thoughtfully. "True. I just hope It stays with us until the end."

He stood, coming to her, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "When is that, I wonder?"

She smiled, striding past him to the doorway, and looked come-hither at him over her shoulder. "We'll just have to wait it out and see."

He wanted to ask her what she had in mind; what her plan truly was once they reached Port Royal-but her fingers curled over his and there was a spark in her eye. He wanted to ask her, but then he did not. A part of him enjoyed it—this enigma that was Elizabeth. If he had all the answers, the joy of finding out was deflated.

He followed her to the crow's nest to gaze out upon the ocean, clear and barren. A straight-shot to any place they wished to venture.

* * *

*Quote by Martin Luther

**17th-century saying

A/N: You know what's coming ;) I promise to update quicker this time!


	23. Homebound: Part II

Progressing Against Propriety

* * *

Midnight trailed on the wings of twilight, hallowed darkness encapsulating the world after the touch of dusk. Obscurity ascending, hours fizzling into one another, until a shooting of stars dappled the sky. The stars reflecting the ocean, once cerulean and then sapphire; yet in its vitreous quality, the sky was the water, the water the sky. Nights such as these, where naught but saltine water and sky ran for miles in either direction, were an enigma, a strain to sanity. Midnight was the hour of utmost serenity, but then that stillness had repercussions of its own. If only the mind was prey to them. One could not sleep, gazing in such an intent manner at the black and starry expanse, tinged by the accumulating mist. One could not sleep, as one thought, on the open deck of a ship in the face of night's prime. Perhaps upon other decks of other ships, but not the _Black Pearl_. Was it that she was a ghost ship, despite the evanescence of the curse? She was still the fastest upon the sea, to be sure. There was something strange about her, some inexplicable quality that gave her life though she was inanimate. How could she survive raging tempests without a scratch while other ships were battered to bits? Why did the wood of the wheel ripple underneath the greeting hand of her captain? Was it all a dream—was it all imagination spurred on by the clout of night?

Not in ordinary worlds. In ordinary worlds, night did not possess clout, nor could it. Ships were merely ships, the sky just the sky, and water simply water. Not in ordinary worlds. But they resided there no longer; they forfeited ordinariness once they set foot on said ghost ship and were faced by pirates who turned skeleton by moonlight. Life would never be the same again after the manifestation of piracy into their hearts and souls. It was more than an external phenomenon. It was like…destiny.

Will Turner's hand tingled as he touched the wheel, such contemplations whirling through his mind as he began the shift from midnight till dawn. What would the shift do to him this night? Reawaken his anxieties? His gaze floated on the sea. What of _that _strength—the sea's relentless power as a force of destiny. A force of destiny? No. Did the sea have a mind of its own, like the _Pearl _and the sky, and even his hat, for that matter? Was it all ridiculous; his imagination running away with him; sprinting off into a realm beyond his control? But the sea, the hurricane, the _Pearl _surviving through it and subsequently pushed in the direction of Port Royal instead of…whichever heading of Jack's choosing. Perhaps the sea did have a mind of its own. Not the sea itself, per se, but perhaps there was a supernatural, controlling force. It didn't surprise him; not really. After witnessing the effect of eight hundred or so gold coins upon a pirate crew, he was open to the possibility of other supernatural occurrences. Hell, it might be far-fetched, but perhaps the sea was controlled by a spirit. Poseidon or Calypso. Weren't they both Gods of the Sea? His thoughts began to revolve around Greek mythology, the tale of Calypso who lured Odysseus to her shores. Was she luring them to Port Royal? But why—had they not languished there long enough? What—

"Will…"

Oh _no_—now Calypso was calling him. What did she want with him—a simpleton who knew nothing of piracy and all that came attached to it?

"Will…"

There was no use in fooling himself. His eyes had opened to the truths of piracy ages ago. If not hours ago. He braced himself, his hands unconsciously tightening upon the wheel. He was determined to turned around and face this spirit, whatever it was, whose tone was dulcet and familiar. Maybe that was its game, its luring game.

"Alright," he muttered, his voice a little more brusque than he intended (who would want to anger a spirit?).

"Will, you're so tense."

The breath and the fancies left him in an instant as he felt a touch on his back. Not any vengeful, cold touch, but…

His breath gradually came back to him. Arms weaving around to embrace him from behind and the sound of a smile. He touched the hands at his middle for reassurance. "Elizabeth."

A soft chuckle against his neck. "Will, you seem surprised. Are you so wrapped up in your duty that you've forgotten me?"

He evened his breath, afraid to admit to himself that she was so close to the mark. Forgotten _her? _Forgotten himself, more like.

"I…I just thought you'd be asleep."

"At this hour? No one can sleep at midnight."

He removed her hands, turning around to face her, look into her eyes. He felt instantly calmer as he did. "Why?"

She pouted, her lips as full as a blooming flower, and brought her hand up to rest against his nape. "At least _I _can't. I awoke, and you had gone. Why don't you come back to bed with me? Surely you're not needed at the wheel tonight."

He smiled at her, enjoying the sensation of losing himself in her eyes. "No, surely not." He more than favoured the feel of her body beneath his fingers to the feel of the wheel. In fact, he did not want to look at the wheel again.

Her lips curved into a smile, and she took his hand, leading him across the deck with bare feet that made not a sound. He abandoned the wheel, as well as the fanciful part of his imagination.

Upon reaching the stairs which led below, she glanced back over her shoulder at him, a glimmer of enquiry in her eyes. His brows lifted in response. "Will, are you sure you're alright? You seem…not quite yourself."

He grinned, grabbing her waist and pressing his lips to hers. "I will be, once I have you to myself in our cabin."

She sighed, pushing away from him. "And this is exactly what I mean, William Turner! For goodness' sake, I believe the sea has gotten to you." Her lips were pursed and her eyes were hard, but there was a spark in her countenance that foretold otherwise.

"Maybe it has. Or maybe…." He leaned forward to nip at her ear. "…you've gotten to me."

She shuddered, still attempting to push away from him, descending a stair in the process. "I only asked you to come to bed."

He stepped down with each step back she took. "What did you suppose I would take that to mean?"

"You jump to conclusions," she griped. Another footfall.

"_You_ were the one who came to _me_, complaining of restlessness."

"And _you_ decided to shirk responsibility."

His lips lingered above hers as they swayed upon the last step. "Because you wanted me, and who am I to deny your wants?"

"The blacksmith of days past, perhaps," she responded quickly, and then looked up, a brief laugh escaping her. "But even then, I had _almost _all that I wanted."

With a severe flash of his eyes, he pushed her forward, her back pressed against the door. "Do you want me now?"

"I…" she faltered, feeling a blush rise to her cheeks unbidden. She could not draw down her eyes, however much she wished to free herself from that gaze—but that was just it. He had her locked and spellbound and it was his eyes, his voice, his entire demeanour which caused her to feel flustered. When had she ever felt flustered by him? Never. Yet, never had he acted so extraordinarily, as if…as if a spirit possessed him, body and soul. A spirit generous with lust and passion, judging merely by his proximity and his countenance.

His eyes dropped, slow and decadent, to her collarbone. She could perceive the slight flutter of his lashes even in the sheer darkness, trapped as they were beyond the stair in a crevice where moonlight could not hope to gain access. His fingers laced her skin. She exhaled as his touch lingered at her chest and he began to untie the laces her camise—_his, _rather.

He smirked, unaware of her agitation whilst focusing with such intent upon that detail. The sharing of clothing had become commonplace during their time aboard the _Pearl_. The thought of her traipsing about the streets of Port Royal in such a manner—her figure enveloped by his shadow—was so ludicrous as to be considered laughable. So ludicrous a notion, yet so stirring as well. Oh, how he would have reacted to the sight of her reposing in the parlour, clothed in his shirt falling loosely to her knees, her hair layered about her shoulders. The crux of impropriety, that. His reaction was decidedly different, here and now. Here, a mere glance at her clad in such vesture was all the urging he required to take the initiative. Well, he would have taken the initiative if such a situation as the parlour had arisen—by doling out admonitory words with red embarrassment on his face to boot. Oh, but here. Here, he was more than willing to respond in due fervour. Who was she to act the part of enchantress time and again, breaking down his solid temperament and thus leaving him a flustering shade of his former self? No; she had not seen that weaker, discomposed version of himself for quite some time. But neither had she seen _this_ side, he contemplated as he rubbed his thumbs against the shirt's coarse material—the shadow of her skin. So close as to drive him to the brink of insanity—but then he had already experienced that tonight, compliments to the sea and Calypso.

Insanity—what he was victim of as she whispered his name and inclined her head back, revealing….revealing as much of herself as to make him want to have done with the teasing altogether.

Her scent, the darkness, the atmosphere—felt right. "Elizabeth," he muttered, not ceasing the kneading movement of his fingers. "We haven't touched; have hardly spoken in a fortnight."

Her head snapped up at his voice. His hands dropped; he wondered what she would say, do. Keeping her gaze upon his face, she reached behind; there was a soft, clicking sound; she had pressed down upon the door handle; the door released and swung open. Releasing heavy breaths, she looked down at herself and then to him, as if confused or indecisive, and then settled on grasping his shirtfront, effectively pulling him inside the cabin. In a flash of movement nigh imperceptible, the door closed behind them and she was divested of her shirt.

"Liz…" His eyes widened, and before he could breathe another word, she set her hands to his chest, her fingers seeping beneath his shirt in her eagerness to rid him of it.

He was losing himself again, as he had lost himself countless times. How many times tonight? How many times in a lifetime? Until things settled down to normalcy. But if normalcy never came to fruition…?

"Wait." He released a sharp sigh, taking her hands. Peering into her mystified face, he kissed her, breaking away before passions deepened beyond control. "Elizabeth, darling…." He could feel her restlessness wreathing around them. "Why so hurried?"

She kissed him, pulling at his lower lip. "It's been a fortnight. We have a lot to make up for."

His expression softened, and he pressed his lips to her forehead, ever so lightly.

"Will…what're you…?

"Shh," he insisted, his hands coming to encircle her rounded stomach. "Don't you want to savour it, love?"

She lifted her eyes; at the same time, her heart dropped to the ocean floor and she felt weak and vulnerable to him of a sudden. His tone—when he spoke to her like that—was an addictive elixir. If he could continue speaking to her thus, nothing in the world could go wrong again.

"Elizabeth." He regarded her with eyes that could instigate a fire in a single glance. "Shouldn't we…take our time?" It was then that he lowered himself on bent knees, resting his cheek on her stomach.

She whimpered, touching his hair.

He held her about her hips. "Especially with Port Royal just around the corner."

She had not expected to hear reference of that—not now, in any case. She stepped back, worry finding its way amidst the love in her heart. "What do you mean by that?"

"Mmm?" he pulled her close again.

She placed her hands on his shoulders to gain his focus. "What do you mean? What does Port Royal have to do with _this_?"

He leant back on his heels. "Only that…we have no way of knowing what's to happen."

A flash of horror crossed her face. The air was buzzing with her restlessness again, but of a different kind. He perceived the change instantly.

"Love, I just meant…"

She crossed her arms over her chest, stepping back from him until she knocked into the bed. Her countenance stiffened, and she was all at once frustrated by the moonlit darkness inhibiting her vision; by his intimation; by the situation turned on its head by his blasted words. Could she not forget about it for a while? For Heaven's sake, they had been all but estranged for days due to their nonsensical tiff and her sickness which came and went and his nightly shifts at the wheel….oh, one thing always led to another.

"Elizabeth, say something please."

She looked at him, escaping the turmoil of her mind only to unleash it. "I don't appreciate what you're suggesting, Will," she muttered.

He sighed and shook his head. "I'm not suggesting anything."

"Hell, you aren't!" she exclaimed, satisfied to see that she had caught him off guard by her sudden coolness. "We should 'savour this' and 'take our time' because of Port Royal," she repeated with scorn. "If that's not laced with meaning, nothing is."

He strode to her, speaking close to her face. His voice was a tense murmur. "Jesus, Elizabeth—what are you so worked up for? I'm only stating the truth."

She expelled an exasperated sigh. "And are you so damned noble that you must _always _state the truth? For God's sake…"

"No! You listen to me, my darling," he hissed, grasping her arm as she attempted to turn away. His hold was firm, hard, as was his tone, derisive.

"Don't speak to me that way!" she seethed.

"You speak to me however you like; allow me the same courtesy," he riposted. He was dangerously close to saying something else, but held back his tongue. "It's all fine and well to live in oblivion when naught in the world affects you. But when you're caught in a web of life and death and lies—well, that's when you have to start facing reality. Does that shock you? Well, it shouldn't it. I thought we'd crossed this bridge, but apparently not."

Tears sprung into her eyes, and she wrested away from him. "What the hell is the matter with you, Will? Do you want to hurt me...again? Or was two weeks of disregard not enough?" She stumbled towards the window, grasping at the maroon curtain.

His body burned with shame and indignation. It was like the night at Tortuga all over again. It was like this damned invisible barrier had been erected to separate them, no matter how hard they tried to traverse it. When life and death hung in the balance, tensions rose. With Port Royal impending, the situation was fragile again. Had she really thought through the consequences of return? But she had her father to think about. He could not blame her for that; he could not be so cruel.

"Damn it, Elizabeth. Do you think I want it to be like this?" He approached her; touched her back; she was trembling. "How many times can we apologize to one another, only for this…_toxic anger_ to strike back again? I've had _enough_. You've had enough, I know, but love…" He wanted to embrace her, console her, he wanted the end to come. "…we won't be free until we see this through to the finish."

Her voice was low and shallow. "I can't…"

"It's all right," he encouraged. Her face was turned; he wished he could see her expression.

"No—Will."

There was something the matter; her voice was strange.

"Will, you need to hold me," she gasped, and suddenly her hands slipped from the curtain, her feet faltering.

"Christ! Elizabeth—" He caught her in his arms as she slipped, frantic as he guided her to lie upon the bed. He felt her forehead; her eyes were closed. The atmosphere was strained with the tense silence. Scrambling about the room, he located the folded cloths on the nightstand, dousing one into cold water from the wash basin. "My God," he whispered, daubing her face. It was not worth it—none of it—if it led to more pain and suffering. That was always the inevitable outcome, wasn't it? He wanted the end to come. If he could will the _Pearl_ to be at the docks by morning, he would. If he could automatically know that her father was alright…But the other loose ends that needed tying up—only Elizabeth could be involved in that. Her stated plan was to obtain a Letter of Marque for Jack, but there was surely more to it. Her mind was always turning tricks and she acted on spontaneity. Left to her own devises, he could not predict what she would do once at Port Royal. If someone could go in her place! She would insist on going, but not in this condition. No, he would not permit it. He would give himself up to the sword before she endangered herself again.

Her lashes fluttered.

"Elizabeth," he breathed, relief flooding into his heart. "Come back to me, love. Come back to me."

She let out a soft moan, bringing a hand to her head where her fingers contacted the damp cloth.

"Easy…"

She opened her eyes. The sharp pain in her head had dimmed away, though she felt confused, failing to understand what had transpired in the moments preceding her fall. "Will?" she questioned.

"Oh, love," he murmured, feeling her cheeks, her pulse.

Her eyes flickered, studying his anxious face. "What happened?"

He swallowed hard. "We were arguing and you became faint."

She blinked, and looked away.

"I can't do this anymore, Elizabeth."

"Do what?" she responded, her voice levelled.

"Argue with you; cause you pain. It's not worth it, after we've…after we've been…" There was a catch in his throat.

She returned her focus to him. She could not turn her back; why and how had she ever done so? Reaching up, she touched his face. "Will, I love you."

He inhaled, studying her face before leaning down to kiss her. She sighed against his lips. This is what it was meant to be, this love. Not hurried and rabid. She wrapped her arms around him and he drew close in an embrace.

"It will all be over soon," she whispered in the midst of a lingering kiss and a gentle touch. She did not want to think about the repercussions. Unbeknownst to him, she was more than aware of them—they plagued her, plagued her like an infection that was unwilling to heal. No, she couldn't think of them, because they would destroy her. She required closure: that is what it was all about. Without it, she could never move on; _they _could never get on with their lives—find a home, raise their children, avoid death for a time.

Just for now, though, she wanted to enjoy this moment of intimacy. And then, with a jolt, she realized that Will had been right all along; that she had instigated an argument for no reason. For all she really wanted was to savour this before the tumult that surely awaited them around the corner.

Tears spilt against his neck as their legs grazed. He looked up, worry clouding his eyes.

"I'm so sorry," her lips moved but her voice was silent.

He kissed her cheeks, intending to favour every inch of her. "It will all be over soon," he mirrored her words. She nodded, surrendering herself to him. Lost in one another as the hours of the night waned, they did not realize the veracity of their dual words, for when they awoke the next dawn, the ship was starkly still and the cries of gulls sounded beyond the port window.


	24. Homebound: Part III

Progressing Against Propriety

* * *

Milky sunlight streamed across the bay, hazy and half-hearted, as though the dawn were reluctant, preferring to remain shrouded under cover of the night mists. Any indication of the hurricane the day prior had been expunged, nothing left of it at all save for a few spare bits of wood floating upon the white crests of waves. A body sunk to the ocean floor, weighted by a ship anchor wound about the ankle, dragging the body down and down despite the flailing attempts of arms. A curse uttered from lips left no impression save a silent trail of bubbles before the dark descent of death closed in. Davy Jones closing in to claim another soul. In legends, in tall tales, the Captain of the _Flying Dutchman_ bore down upon his victims, enquiring if they feared death, offering them the deal of serving one hundred years before the mast and then freedom, or straight to the locker. But that was mere legend, not to be believed.

James Norrington did not stand a chance—not against Jack Sparrow, not against the _Black Pearl_, certainly not against Davy Jones and the _Flying Dutchman. _If that legend was presumed to be true, that is. Either way, the Commodore was considered a fool for setting sail in the wake of an impending hurricane. After the previous one, which had ravaged a fair number of ships and villages, one would be terribly unwise to laugh in the face of danger and brave the storm based on a grudge. A grudge, that was just it. A little game of back-stabbing and revenge between two enemies. One would think (in fact, the team of military men thought so) that Norrington would go after that Turner boy—dual him to the death for the hand of Elizabeth Swann. Something valiant and poetic. Strangely enough, no. Norrington transferred his obsession of gaining the girl's hand to the obsession of ridding the seas of the scourge of piracy, with one man on the top of his list. Jack Sparrow. Why he was so intent on capturing that man was understandable—he had ingratiated himself in Elizabeth's life and so must be dealt with. Norrington thus had an agenda—bringing the _Black Pearl _down and Sparrow with it. Captain goes down with the ship. A noose awaited Sparrow and Norrington thirsted to see the man's neck in it. He had escaped by a narrow margin once before (due to Norrington's foolish weakness—he damned himself for allowing his hurt emotions get in the way of his priorities). He would not escape again.

Norrington trailed the _Black Pearl_ for weeks, waiting for the right moment to ambush. Not even realizing that there were new crew members aboard, not even distinguishing the identity of the man who stood at the wheel night after night. He had assumed the man to be Sparrow all along. Oh yes. But if Norrington had Sparrow in sight, why did he not attack? He thought to himself, a quiet midnight ambush was not good enough—Sparrow would appreciate a spectacle. But then, why was Norrington even taking Sparrow's wants into consideration? Perhaps he was losing himself, prey to the spell of the night sea and sky and the wiles of Calypso. If the sea nymph even existed, that is.

And then there is that annoying little detail that cannot be dismissed. Sparrow himself was aware of a ship trailing the _Pearl_; was aware that the ship was captained by none other than James Norrington. Understand that Sparrow did not forget that the Commodore had it out for him; he did not forget that the Commodore had allowed him a "head start," so to speak, that day when he jumped off the battlements. That fateful day when Will and Elizabeth declared their love for one another. No, Sparrow had not forgotten that. Nor, did he wager, had Norrington. Thus, the trailing ship did not come as a surprise. Still, he took precautions. From the first evening he noticed the ship, he charged Will to the duty of Captain during the hours of midnight til dawn. Will would be a decoy, unbeknownst to the boy of course. Leverage was already in play—the Turners were doing him a favour without their knowledge of it. If Norrington decided to stage an ambush in the middle of the night—well, he would come upon quite a surprise, wouldn't he? Sparrow smiled to himself at this, quite self-satisfied with the little set-up he had created. Hell, if Norrington decided to ambush in the dead of night, the result would be highly amusing. Norrington—Turner—Swann—together again. How fateful.

And the Turners were blissfully ignorant of it all! Too absorbed in themselves, in their own little problems, they had not an inkling of what was going on behind the lens. The wool had been pulled over their eyes. Oh, they would be angry with him when they found out but—it would be amusing all the same.

The hurricane shattered all their plans. Norrington's, Jack's, Will's. All save Elizabeth's. She wanted to return to Port Royal. Will, of course, wanted to be as far away from the place as possible. But…as it was…

Norrington was dead. Jack was forced to trust Elizabeth's word, despite his terrible reluctance to do so. Women were not to be trusted—they were as capricious as the sea, and they vexed him. Vexed all men, and thus he could not understand why Will would want to saddle himself to one for life. But never mind that—it forced him to stay away from her, that vixen Elizabeth, she being married to Turner and all. He was already plenty bothered by Anamaria, her hand always a hair's breadth away from his cheek. Why he allowed her to stay aboard the _Pearl_, he had no idea. But he had not the heart to force her to leave. Women! They vexed men and clouded their thinking. He did not like it. Still, he was forced to trust Elizabeth, and trust Will in the process. It was a difficult undertaking, but…as it was…

Elizabeth had a plan, yet was revealing no detail of it. If that did not suffice to vex a man, nothing did. But she had no time to think, no time to grieve even the death her once-dear-friend Norrington, because things were coming on too fast. Wanting something so badly often leads to the desired result materializing sooner than expected.

* * *

The atmosphere felt warm and light in the room, the pillows fragrant and the sheets crumpled at the feet.

Elizabeth felt the grasp of sleep loosening its hold on her, but the generous quiet of morning and the soothing aromas lulled her. All was still, so still. The _Pearl _must be flying across the water, no waves at this hour, the wind pushing the ship along. She imagined the ship gliding through the air, past patches of white cloud, towards blue clime, but heading in no particular direction. Just gliding. So still and quiet, with…with sea gulls passing by? Their cries audible but the flapping of their wings making not a sound. Strange, she thought, and nestled her face deeper into the pillow.

"Elizabeth."

She heard his voice interrupting her from the dream. She sighed. If only he would wrap his arms around her and go back to sleep. The dream was so lovely. Strange but lovely.

His breath was close to her skin; she felt it tingle against her neck. The sleepiness was wearing off as she experienced a sudden desire that he should kiss her there.

"Elizabeth, we've stopped," he said softly, and his lips touched her back.

_Oh yes_, she thought, involuntarily arching as his lips trailed down the length of her spine. She felt him shift away; his hands settled on her shoulders.

"Come on."

Her eyes fluttered open. She turned over to her back and faced him, looking into his eyes. He must have been awake for a while—not dressed though apparently awake, the haze of sleep having left him a while before.

His lips curved in a slight smile; was there tension in his face? "Morning," he murmured. "We've stopped."

"Mmm?" She blinked at him, puzzled. He had ceased to kiss her, but all she wanted was to claim his lips and settle back into the comfort of the pillows. She drew up, bringing her hand to his face, but he drew it back down. His expression was serious. "Will?" she tried again. "What do you mean, we've stopped? Did we hit a rock?" She honestly could care less about it and sat up, kissing his jaw.

"Elizabeth." His voice was firm and his hands on her shoulders, pushing her away.

She looked at him, bewildered now. "For Heavens' sake Will, have we arrived in Port Royal already, or what is it? This had better be important, else…"

She trailed off as his face went hard and he said nothing. Then she knew. "Oh my God," she whispered. She swung her feet to the floor, slowly standing, fruitlessly looking for clothes as she stood bare. Will handed her a shirt, which she held limply in her hands, a barren expression on her face. He took it out of her hands; wrapped a blanket around her instead, and then held her close, kissing her hair.

"Are you alright? We don't have to go through with this. We can turn around; never think about this place again," he said. But he knew as he said those words that they were useless.

"My father," Elizabeth muttered hoarsely.

He gave a deep sigh. He had expected that answer, yes, but still he had hoped that she would change her mind.

"So we rescue your father," he answered, stepping back to regard her. "And what next? Take him aboard the _Pearl_? Sail, the three of us, on another ship somewhere? What?"

She bit her lip, lowering her eyes. His words seemed to spur her into action, for she began to hurriedly dress. "I don't know."

Will closed his eyes, exhaling though his nose. He could not snap at her, not now. But if she did not have a plan—. "At least tell me you have a plan," he managed to say calmly.

She was at the door, dressed not in the shirt and slacks which she had favoured of late, but in a mauve-coloured gown. "Yes, I have a plan. Would you help?"

She had her back to him. She wanted him to lace her. The scene made him feel strange and disconcerted.

"What are you wearing that for?" he enquired, his tone bitter, for the memories it conjured were thus.

She sighed, and her bare back trembled, the bones of her ribs and spine becoming visible with her breath. "Anamaria washed it for me; kept it, in case I was wanting it."

Ah, so that was why it was familiar. It was the dress she had worn on the eve of their escape. The dress she had worn when she had nearly been…when he had…

"What the _hell_, Elizabeth?" The bitterness in his voice shined through full force. The taste in his mouth was of fire and ashes. He had an irrepressible urge to rip that dress off of her, burn it, cast the burnt fragments into the sea.

She turned, her eyes flashing. "If I'm to return to Port Royal, I must play the part."

Suddenly, he knew what she was going to do. He shook his head. "That's ghastly—you're sick. Take it off."

"Will!" she exclaimed shrilly. That tone—she was not backing down. She turned her back to him again, sweeping her hair over one shoulder. "Help me, please."

With quick, gruff fingers, he complied, loathing it. Loathing the feel of the laces, the way her body seemed to be sewed up. She turned around. The dress fit more snugly now, though her condition was still slight enough to escape notice. He grimaced. Once, he had considered her beautiful in that dress.

She weaved her fingers through her hair. "Am I that hideous?"

He turned away, going over to the port window and looking out, just to have something else to look at. "You know that it is not _you _to which I have an aversion."

"Just let me do what must be done, Will." Her voice was softer, defeated even. "I'm just as eager to walk away from this nightmare as you are. But for now…"

He turned back. She had pinned up a few strands of her hair; was adjusting her bodice. She looked as she did on that day. Oh, they wouldn't tell the difference. The dress on its own was beautiful, there was no denying it. The finest material, the finest embroidery, imported from London to be sure. _She _was beautiful. But the two in combination…No, he couldn't perceive this picture before him as beautiful.

She caught him staring and frowned. "What is it? Oh, I should bite my lips to make them crimson, fuller."

A rush of emotion came over him as she bit the corner, her lips forming a pout. "No—Elizabeth."

"What?"

He came to stand before her, taking her face in his hands. "Let me," he breathed, and kissed her fervently, his lips pulling at hers, and for a moment all seemed forgotten, lost in touch of passion, until she moaned, drawing away. Tears shined in her eyes. They stared at one another. He traced her lips with a forefinger—red and full. He leaned in once more.

"No," she murmured, putting her hand upon his chest. "We have to stop."

A tremor of distress pulsed between them. The silence and their eyes locked—it was the garden all over again. He reached out to her.

"Elizabeth—"

She touched his arm and then backed away to the door and whispered, "I have to go." She opened the door.

Anguish pierced his eyes. He did not want to let her go yet. "But where..?"

"Go to the mansion; find out if Father's alright. I must go to naval headquarters…with Jack."

* * *

In a moment, she was gone, the last trace of her a flash of mauve-blue in the crevice of the door. He had more to say to her; he felt frozen. Yet he knew his words were unnecessary, for she had heard them already, if not from his lips, then in her heart. He slipped on his coat, pushed a hat low over his eyes, and closed the door to the untidy room which bore their happiest memories. And thus into the fray. Though danger did not loom as it had before, he feared for her life; though in retrospect, she was already dead to this town. Perhaps her plan would work after all.

The deck was barren, and he presumed her plan had been set in motion. He swung down to the docks. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he felt a change. A change in the wind and in the atmosphere. This was not the Port Royal they left. This was…a barren wasteland of a place. The liveliness had been sucked dry and…

He skirted behind a palm to escape notice.

…pairs of military men patrolled every corner. He cursed to himself. If the military filled the streets, they were sure to be crawling all over the mansion. And if so then…then the Governor was under their control. Unless…

He stepped out of the palm's shadow. No—the military would be under the _Governor's _control—he held supreme authority, did he not? Will felt a stirring of hope. He would do as she said—go to the mansion, explain all to Governor Swann. Everything would be fine. He was _dead _in any case. He would be seen as a penniless vagrant, and he could hide himself along the way if need be.

He began the walk to the mansion, familiar to his feet. He was surprised as the number of military men thinned the further away from the docks he travelled. Perhaps they meant to halt any arrivals, ships most importantly. Then how had the _Pearl _docked unseen? He pushed that trivial concern from his mind, grateful that he had at least made it this far.

Within a short time, the mansion was in sight. Will's heart lifted. This place, at any rate, bore pleasant memories for him. Oh, the years had gone by swiftly. But no time for memories now—all he had to do was find the Governor. He would be in his study, yes, looking over documents with his spectacles low on the bride of his nose. Will would knock; quietly enter; and they would be so relieved to see one another. He would try to tell the Governor all that had transpired, but the Governor would not need to hear any of it—just wanted to know if Elizabeth was alright? Yes, and they were all going to go away from here, have a house of their own. Maybe in London. Yes, in London, where the Governor would resume his old life, and he and Elizabeth could raise their children in the same fashion in which Elizabeth herself was raised—with more leniency, though. And he could perhaps find work, and they would have dinners together, and….

He stopped cold at the gates of the mansion. Such thoughts of the future fled his mind and he was left with mere fragments of a dream. He did not know what to do, or where to go. For the Governor of Port Royal was dead.

* * *

Elizabeth skirted behind a stone pillar, Jack close on her heels.

"You look ravishing, I must say that. But isn't the point of all this to be seen? Shouldn't you be floating about like a ghost, scaring off the villagers?"

Elizabeth whipped around, stomping on his foot. He winced. "Shut it, and follow my lead. You'll get what you want."

"Damn it," he muttered softly. "I didn't want a broken foot."

"Hush!" she insisted, and surveyed the surroundings. They had spotted several military men along the way, but surprisingly, none were stationed outside headquarters. Well, there were none left, were they? And in that case, there would be no one inside. She would be free to rifle through drawers to obtain what she wanted. And if someone should come in: there was Elizabeth Swann, the vengeful spirit, and Jack Sparrow available for the taking. She smiled grimly. So they would all get what they wanted. Elizabeth would gain her long-awaited for freedom, the military would have in their custody the pirate they had been so long searching for, and Jack…well, Jack would get what he deserved.

"Let's go," Elizabeth muttered. "The coast is clear." They continued forward.

Jack regarded her curiously. He was forced to trust this woman. It went against his nature. Every step forward after her felt like a step in the wrong direction. "Tell me your plan, lass."

She shot him a glare that reverberated, 'follow my lead.' He was silent and continued on behind her, focusing on the cream sash at her waist as his thoughts drifted. A Letter of Marque. The notion of it made him balk. Well, at least it would bide him time. Give him time to search for an elixir of immortality. Wait, that's what she had suggested. He eyed the back of her head suspiciously. Was he beginning to trust her? Impossible. But immortality…the _immortal _Captain Jack Sparrow had such a lovely ring to it. Aztec gold had already been tried, and no longer an option. He had heard of the Fountain of Youth. Maybe that was a likely prospect. Then he had also heard tale of men who had died at sea only spend their afterlife aboard the _Flying Dutchman_, a ghost ship if there ever was one. Her Captain possessed immortality. Of course there was a duty involved—ferrying souls to the other side—but that was a small price to pay. Lots of rum could be had; he could sail to the edges of the map; not to mention, live forever. Hmm…

He bumped hard into her back. "Oi—move on!" he griped. He grew irritated when she neither moved nor spoke. He walked in front of her to see what was wrong. "What the bloody hell are you gawking at? What—" He then stopped short.

"It's…it's boarded up," Elizabeth murmured. The headquarters had fallen into ruin—grimy, windows broken, peeling walls. The work of vagrants, perhaps.

Jack let out a deep sigh and patted her on the shoulder. "Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie."

She looked at him.

"What's yer plan now?"

She knew he was mocking her; knew he had never trusted her in the first place. But now…now she did not know what to do, or where to go. She attempted to reformulate her plan, quickly. Either way, she wanted Jack gone—there was no question about that. But her overriding concern was her father; she had a burning desire to go to the mansion. She turned in the other direction. "We're going to the mansion."

"Bloody hell…"

"Come on—there's no where else to go."

He hated to admit it, but she was right. Port Royal was not the same. Something had happened, something ominous from what he could tell. The life had been sucked dry from the town. He found himself following her again, but he had a feeling that he would not like what he would find at the mansion…and nor would she. In fact, he had a good idea what they find. He took her arm.

"Let go!" she insisted breathlessly as she wrested away. "We're losing time.

He shook his head. "Time may already be lost."

She furrowed her brow, and then seemed to dismiss the comment and she travelled on. He could not stop her.

* * *

To be continued...

A/N: The next chapter will be up quickly, as this was originally one _long _chapter. We're getting close to the end of the journey, so close...


	25. Struggle & Defeat: Part I

Progressing Against Propriety

* * *

Walking with hurried steps, they traversed the path trodden by familiar soles not long before. The climbing mist and fizzling sunlight left the world grey and bleak, the view ahead waning dimmer as surroundings lost their sharp and virid outlines. The progressing terrain lay covered in a thick veil of patchy white, lending an air of uncertainty to footfalls. The dampness was rising, condensing in an abrupt shift from blue and sun spilt shores, though not uncommon with the unfolding of the season into winter. Yet the chill seemed peculiar, odd to a place once so rich and verdant. The climate contributed to the rankness, the sense of putrefaction which permeated the town ever since the loss of order and decorum. Murder and deception poisoned the town like a plague, allowing for the entrance of unsavoury elements. Port Royal had teetered on the brink of destruction since the marriage of dissimilar social classes. The pressure had built up, and when the porcelain silhouette which emblematized propriety and gentility was shattered, so the town was shattered; shattered to irreparable fragments. That porcelain silhouette was destroyed when the poisonous plague arrived; that porcelain silhouette was Elizabeth Swann. Now all she represented—the beauty and the decency and the stability—was buried underground and dead forever.

Elizabeth Swann was another woman in another world; both the woman and the world had ceased to exist. Elizabeth Turner took her place, a woman not defined by her social status, not defined by anything and thus free-spirited.

The said woman passed by the dismal shoreline. The tide was low, making the sands long and brown. Her eyes passed briefly over the landscape, and thoughts of pleasant times she had made there filtered in a transitory stream through her mind. The bottom of her gown snagged, and she looked down upon a clump of shrubbery, from which a small mound of cement protruded.

Her companion approached, close at her heels—she had been breathless, running towards the mansion of her adolescence as though her life depended on it, and here she stood now, motionless.

"What's this now?" he asked in subtle irritation. Then he followed her gaze, and realized the cause of her suspension.

Slow in her movement, she knelt down, touched the top of the cement. Rubbing her hands across the surface, rubbing away the grime that had collected, she revealed characters that had been etched there. Her face became hollow, haunted, until she appeared as a wraith whilst reading those characters. Her finger traced the lines—_William Turner_, the birth and death dates.

He knelt beside her, rubbing her shoulder. "He's not dead, Lizzie."

She looked up, tears rimming her eyes. "But Jack, it was so close…"

He stared at her hard, standing up and taking her hand to pull her away with him. "It's all fine, now savvy?" he muttered. "He's not dead, nor will he be." His eyes darted around, his shoulders hunched. "Let's get a move on; I don't like this."

Elizabeth sobered, clearing her face of the cobwebs of despair. She nodded, and taking his hand, led him forward. They were close now, just a bit further. Jack looked at her hand in his, feeling a strange emotion rising up from his belly. He cleared his throat.

"Are things…quite alright between yourself and William?"

She turned sharply about, obviously caught off guard by the question, by the interruption of the meditative silence. "Whatever do you mean? Of course things are alright between us."

"Really?" His tone reeked of disbelief, or of hope for his own chances. "If that's the case, then perhaps the arguing between the both of you should not be quite so vociferous."

The flush of redness which came over her cheeks was prominent against the pallor of her face. "You heard us."

Jack smirked. It was unpleasant and it made her face burn ever the more.

"It was nothing, just a misunderstanding." Then she said in a stronger voice, "But our private lives _do not_ concern you."

He let out a laugh, unpleasant still. "That's where you're wrong, pet. What would we be doing here if your lives were _not _my concern?"

She fidgeted. It was true, of course. Their lives had become inextricably entwined since he had rescued her from the sea; saved her life, as it were. Even before then—they had been connected since she first came to possess the coin of Aztec gold; since she first saw the _Black Pearl _herself looming behind them in the mist on the passage from England. Ten years ago now, was it? Ten years. So much had changed in those years. And her life had been entwined with Jack's throughout the duration. The notion made her feel strange, made her shudder. It was like…destiny.

The comfort which radiated from this revelation remained to be the fact that her life had been entwined with Will's first: if not for Will, she would have never been thrust into this world of piracy and would have never met Jack. Would have never known about the curse, would have never become directly involved in the pirate lore she used to fantasize about. _This_, all of this, where they were and why, was consequence of her fateful encounter with a young boy named Will Turner stranded in the ocean. It all seemed coincidence, but really it was like…destiny.

Jack seemed to hint the trajectory of her thoughts, for his frowned deepened as she smiled, her eyes assuming that glittery quality whenever the whelp was on her mind. Yes, he had witnessed that lovesick expression many a time before. It sobered him, and he drew his hand from hers. They were like obsessed children, she and Turner. It sickened him, the notion of being so utterly attached to one person that all other intimate relationships were beyond the realm of possibility.

"So you love him, then," he muttered gruffly.

She laughed softly, her lashes fluttering in a way that was bothersome to him. "You've just realized that, have you?"

Jack was about to respond, but she let out a shriek, and all regard for him disappeared. They had arrived, and she was ahead of him, peering through the gates of the mansion.

"Lizzie, wait…" he attempted, but she was a whir of excitement and all that mattered to her was the mansion, going inside the mansion to find….to find what?

Military men swarmed the grounds, dressed in the familiar blue brocade. It was lively, pleasant, reminiscent of the old Port Royal. No—the mansion grounds patrolled by the Navy was not customary, but it was the one specimen of life they had encountered since setting foot on the town. The mansion appeared the same. It had not gone into disrepair like the other edifices. Flags waved on the front columns, but Elizabeth was too distracted to notice them.

"Oh, Father must have ordered the Navy for protection. Port Royal was surely ransacked while we were away…" Elizabeth was muttering, and her voice soon accelerated to a pitch of incoherent chattering.

A carriage pulled up to the front, from the east side of the drive rather than the main port of access along the road upon which they stood and through the gates.

"Oh, look it's my father!" Elizabeth cried ecstatically, groping at the gate. "He's just come back!"

"Elizabeth?" a voice hissed.

"William." Jack uttered the greeting, his features grave and emotionless.

Will glanced from Jack to Elizabeth, his countenance anxious. "What the hell are you doing here?" he muttered, his voice accusatory and his eyes on Jack.

Jack gave him a wide-eyed glare. _As if this is my fault?_, he wished to say.

Will retorted with glower: _You know what's happened; why did you let her come here?_

_I can't stop the damn stubborn woman—_

Their silent conversation was cut short when Will turned to pointedly exclude Jack.

"Elizabeth." He put his hands on her shoulders. "There's something you need to know."

She seemed not to see him. "I must get inside; I must see him—he's come back—he'll be so happy to—"

"_Elizabeth_," Jack murmured with emphasis, and something about the tone of his voice made her turn. She saw him, when she had not seen Will. There was an inflection to Jack's voice which foretold something important, something objectionable even. "He's not back."

Elizabeth's face went blank, dismayed, and her eyes changed, losing some of their lustre to become hollow. She shook her head; she did not want to believe him. She strode past the both of them and touched her hands to the heavy metal latch of the gate. She fumbled with it, shaking it.

"Elizabeth, what are you doing?" Will asked in a quiet voice.

"Opening the gate," she answered with determination.

"No," he replied, holding her arms.

She flailed away from him. "Let me be!" The gate flung open with a groan. Tearing past Will, she darted the gate's perimeter. "Father, father!" The carriage stood stationary at the front entrance, blocking view of the doorway. "Father, please—it's me; it's Elizabeth!" she shouted, though none of them seemed to hear her. Was she still too far away? She would intercept him as he stepped out of the carriage; attempt to explain things all at once, but he would stop her. He would only care that she was alright; his only daughter alive and well. And he would take her in his arms and lead her inside. The foyer would be bright and scented with warm candles, and they would all gather in the parlour with a roaring fire and boiled tea and biscuits and speak the whole evening through. Everything would be wonderful again, and she would convince him to leave this place which was no good for anyone anymore. They would move across the sea. Maybe to London. Yes, London, where he could resume his old life and she and Will could find their own home in which to live their lives and to have children. And she would raise her daughters in the English fashion, similar to the manner in which she was raised. With more leniency, though. And perhaps Will could find work, and the three of them, along with the children, could have dinners together and…

She stopped cold a few feet away from the entrance as the carriage drove off and her father had not come out. A man in powdered wig and brocade and a distinguishable, bumptious voice strode up the steps, showered with respect from the men who attended to him. Her breath hitched and quickened in her throat. She heard a pathetic, whining sound from somewhere in the distance and did not know what it was. Then she realized that it was from her own throat that the sound issued. "Father? Father?" She took tentative steps forward, her feet skidding against the dirt.

"Hear that, men? What is that?"

"She _can't _go inside!"

"What—is that a _woman_?"

Will overcame her, catching her arm as she tried to move forward into view of the questioning men.

"No!" she howled, striking out with her arms, trying to push her way out of his arms but his grasp was firm. "No! I won't leave you! I won't leave you! I won't leave…"

"Elizabeth!" he entreated, and embraced her firmly.

With gasping breaths, she plunged her face into his neck, beating against his chest with her hands. "No, no, no…" she sobbed.

His face assumed that hallow, haunted look as he rocked her in his arms. Knowing that the worst was not over, as they had so hoped.

"Will?"

He looked up; Jack had approached with quiet steps. The expression on his face was unknown—a type of uncomfortable agony. His eyes were focused on Elizabeth, limp and quivering with her hands latched in a vice about Will's neck.

"Is there anything can be done?" Jack muttered. There was something odd about him. Concern, perhaps. Concern over Elizabeth's wellbeing.

Will looked hard at him, his hands clenching at her back. "No. He's dead." That had not been what Jack meant, but it was all the same thing. Governor Swann's death entailed further anguish for Elizabeth, anguish which cut open her heart and left her with bleeding wounds which would not easily heal.

Jack was gnawing at his lips, eyes still on her. "What do we do?"

Will noted the unease in his eyes; the way he did not look at him when he spoke, but stayed fixated on his wife. It was unpleasant and sent waves of irritation up and down his spine. "My arms will always be open to provide her comfort," he said in a voice not above a whisper, but the intimation was clear.

Jack did not respond; having unwittingly made an overture, he was castigated. He had crossed into sacred territory, and Elizabeth's words came back to him: _Our private lives do not concern you. _Perhaps that was it, then. They were not inextricably tied to one another in a something of a divine bond, as previously believed. Perhaps they were merely tools to be used for the other's gains. They had only been using one another, had they not? Since the very beginning. Release you from prison if you help me rescue my beloved. Of course, come with me to the Isle de Muerta where your beloved is sure to be, only I _won't _disclose that important detail about your blood sufficing to break the curse. Free you, but not give you immortality. Give you luxuries, but ultimately use you as a bargaining chip. That was all it was, a repetition of wordplay and deception, both parties utilizing one another insincerely for personal gains.

It began to rain. In silence, they stood behind the veil of a palm. Three figures. Two entwined with one another as if they composed one whole; the other distant and estranged. The water drenched them and yet they did not stir. For they neither knew what to do, nor where to go. The flags on the columns of the mansion fluttered madly, the emblem of the East India Trading Company blinking and glistening in the wetness. Within the mansion, fire turned in the grate and it burned not in the parlour, but in the study. The mahogany desk was covered with large, intricate maps and small figurines. The great chair behind swivelled and a pair of blue eyes scintillated in the firelight.

* * *

A/N: Decided to submit the "finale" in shorter segments. Next instalment to be up soon.


	26. Struggle & Defeat: Part II

Progressing Against Propriety

A/N: Apologies for the delay. Suffice it to say, life gets in the way of free-writing. Good news, this story will be finished soon. Then I'm officially retiring from this site. It's been a pleasure writing here. Enjoy :)

* * *

The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift,  
The road is forlorn all day,  
Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,  
And the hoof-prints vanish away.  
The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,  
Expend their bloom in vain.  
Come over the hills and far with me,  
And be my love in the rain.*

The plaintive melody of a whisper carried on the northern wind, reverberating against the rain-soaked boughs and clanging with every water drop spilt upon the cobblestones. The expulsion of water from the heavy clouds seemed apropos as to denote celestial lamentation. Grief coated the clouds in a thick layer; fury plummeted with the rain in mindless, lashing strokes. The coming of the storm was inevitable: a winter storm. A line storm. The promptness was seasonable, exceptionally so. Such a storm as this had occurred sparsely in recent years. The last mentionable occasion was several months past, where the gloom and ferocity foretold death and tragedy. Again, the storm arrives in the midst of death and tragedy, the tears of those below keeping in time with the tears of those above.

Three figures stood erect and motionless in the rain: two enwrapped like twin vines entwined, one solitary like a forgotten leaf. The plaintive whisper whistled around them, where the boughs rain when it blows.* Enveloped wet and numb, the ghost of a woman huddled against a similarly spectral man. She remained oblivious to all, even to the mansion ahead of them seeming to disappear in a black patch of fog. She remained oblivious to all save for the vice-like grip with which he held her. So close, skin against skin in the damp, with the ever-pressing need for intimacy—a soul touching a soul in the understanding, however befuddled, which accompanied death. In a passage of time that was incalculable, she raised her eyes to his, wanting to burrow deeper into the safety and security which he offered. And yet to become closer was impossible, and she settled for the promise that he would be her love in the rain. In spite of it all, rain-borne love was the saving grace which gave her a reason to move; a reason to look up and realize the identity of the figure that supported her thus. Their eyes connected, drenched, impossible to distinguish tears from raindrops. They had not a word to say—not apologies, not explanations. Only a wistful sigh and a silent urging to move out of reach of the slanting line of water.

The lone figure, the third-wheel as it were, had broken from the wagon long ago and now lay in the mire wedged behind a rock. He was unwanted, yet he could not leave them. Not when there were debts to be paid. A clearing of the throat, so subtle, was enough to sever the lovers' connection.

Her hands loosened from about his neck, dropped to his chest. His shirt clung to him, wet, and she could have been touching his skin. Her mind ran away from her, and she imagined a different time and place, different circumstances. She would want to feel his skin strong and damp beneath her hands and a warm kiss by the fireside, warding off the chill, and everlasting love in the rain. As he stepped back, his eyes became unfocused, and perhaps his mind had gone away for a moment too, in this rain. Hoping for anything against reality. Reluctant to move, for movement meant turning to face the consequences which their actions had wreaked.

Both pairs of eyes were on her—it was her fault that they stood in the rain-soaked streets of Port Royal, thus it was her duty to determine the next course of action. Both pairs of eyes were on her—though one was sharp and accusatory while the other was lost and distressed. It was her choice, though she knew what they desired—to leave. Nothing was left. All plans of rescue and retribution were foiled. Nothing was left.

He took her hand and turned, but she stood firm. He looked back.

"I want to go in," her voice echoed.

Both pairs of feet moved simultaneously.

"You…you want…"

"I _need _to," she murmured.

He covered her hand with his. His eyes were desperately sympathetic; she could not look at him.

"Elizabeth, your father—"

"I have to collect his things," she interrupted, her voice brusque. "Not…everything. But, his valuables. In the study." She swallowed and her eyes flickered between the men before her. "I don't want them touched by any hands but mine."

Without pausing for their response, she stepped out into the shower, along the muddied pathway.

The expression on Jack's face was worrying; he held up a hand, intending to go on after her. "Elizabeth! That is not the wisest choice of—"

Will grasped his shoulder, pulling him back, and fixed on him a distressed glare. "Haven't you done enough?"

Jack shoved his hand away. "What the hell do you mean by that, whelp?"

Will's face darkened with the pain of betrayal. "You know bloody well." He drew a hand over his eyes, and the fortitude which held him together slackened. "Just leave us alone."

"I will not."

"Why?" Will asked, and within the question was a myriad of protestations against Jack's staying.

"Because, whether you like it or not, we're in this until the end. _Whatever _this is—this odd, noxious thing. We're all invested, all involved so deeply that…neither of us could consider leaving." Jack's voice dropped lower. "It's too late for that."

Will glowered. "Too late for _you_, you mean."

Jack was taken aback.

"Too late for you to turn back, now that you've put us to such good use. What are you invested in, really? Because it seems to me that you've become emotionally involved with my wife." His nostrils flared; he rippled with anger and shoved Jack away from him. "That's one-sided, Jack. She's never cared for you!"

Jack's face contorted with scorn. "Your accusations are baseless." He then shook his head and turned away. "It's a shame, you know—it's not a matter of mistrusting me, it's of mistrusting your wife."

Will gaped, feeling the implication like a knife in the chest.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Jack continued. He began to walk away into the mist.

"You don't know the meaning of hurt—you can't."

Will's voice, pained and plaintive, reverberated at Jack's back. There was hope yet.

"Can't I? Well, I know the meaning of betrayal." He turned to look the lad straight in the eye. "And you're incapable of it."

Will audibly stiffened, the ripple in his back cracking in the sodden air. "What are you doing?"

Jack's eyes glinted, bearing into his. "Don't tell me you've forgotten what passed last year? They had me at last, roped about the neck. Surprised they didn't burn me alive—me, a wanted man for so long." He grinned, a perverse gesture. "I was as good as dead, all you spectators trussed up to witness my demise. How delicious.

"Ah, what _is _the point, you ask? The point is, William…" He sauntered back, his breath nearly stroking Will's face. "…you hadn't the heart to walk away, watch me die, betray me after what I'd done for you."

Will's eyes dilated. "You—"

"And you haven't the heart now." Jack thrust his hand against Will's chest. "You haven't the black, festering heart that resides in me."

Will was stunned with frustration. He no longer had control; he could no longer think. The rain clouded his eyes and his mind and his feet were ground to the earth as if chained.

"…I can't walk away and neither can you, because there's a girl back there who's just entered the gates into hell."

The chains loosed and he could move again. "What?"

"Notice the flags, mate?"

Will looked up; saw the navy markers fluttering upon the columns. In a breath, he rushed towards the gates, the metal slick, passing through them as he skidded across the muddied gravel, his gaze riveted with the barren doorway. Jack was yet a step ahead of him.

"Where is she? Why did I let her come?" he wailed.

"The door's locked; she went around the back, climbed to the balcony. There's no lock on the door there."

Will stared at him, his eyes crazed. He did not dare ask how he knew this; why he knew this. He only followed blindly, through the now dilapidated garden. God, the paths and the flowers once so familiar. The bench and the barrier twisted with ivy worn down and the ivy dead. The garden was lifeless. Where they had kissed, where their footsteps had trodden…it seemed a dream. It had died when they had been declared dead. This life was dead to them. Even the door handle beneath his fingers felt oddly-wrought. As if he had never lived here. What was this place?

"Come along, this way."

Jack's voice called him forward. He stood beyond the double doors, just underneath the balcony, the end of a tattered rope of sheets in his hand.

Will furrowed his brow. "How did you…?"

"Never mind that—she'll be in the foyer by now, so make haste."

Through with questioning, filled only with the sobering notion of death, Will took the rope in his hands, climbing upward. Upon reaching the balcony, the door yielded to his touch. He found himself in a room that was both familiar and strange. Everything had changed. The bedroom—their bedroom—had turned to dust in three month's time.

Jack did not heed the incongruities (and so why did _he _heed them?) and stormed through the door, scurrying down the staircase. Voices issued from beyond. They were in the parlour, the kitchen, down the hall—where? Echoes. A soft and delicate sound, like the brush of silk against marble. Smooth, like water upon glass.

"Elizabeth." No sooner, and his hand was at her shoulder. She stiffened, though breathed not a word. Her eyes met his, mystified and emanating caution. So she had felt it too, then—felt this unfamiliarity and her voice had been stilled by the presentiment of death.

Her fingers settled cold against the metal handle of the study door. As if to open it. Only a slight press, and the door would open. Yet she waited, her eyes unwavering on his. Waiting for permission?

"We should leave," he mouthed.

Then she sprung into action. That was it, no turning back. If this was hell, would the other side of the door, which felt hot and vociferous, be much worse?

The door closed behind them, and they were assaulted by such potent heat to feel as though engulfed by flames. And then time stopped. The mahogany of the wooden desk burned scarlet, creaking with the weight of unfamiliar hands. The chair swivelled, lax and unhurried. Perhaps it was only them, feeling this heat, this anxiety…The atmosphere waxed casual, and a greeting was issued as if they were expected guests on a warm afternoon for tea. Yet the face that turned to them was a face of duplicity, with scintillating eyes which suggested more than amiable tidings.

Elizabeth's fingers flew to her pallid lips. "Beckett."

The man smiled, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk, pressing his fingertips together. "Ah, so you remember me. Good. It is a pleasure to see you all…_alive._" His laughter filled the room. All escape routes were barred; they were left in the face of the devil.

* * *

* "A Line-Storm Song" by Robert Frost

Next chapter, coming soon: a final stand


	27. Struggle & Defeat: Part III

Progressing Against Propriety

Fire in the grate sputtered, licking the metal bars to envelop the room with heat. It smoked of unfamiliarity, of impropriety. Never had the fire burnt in this room—not the study, the study which had always been cool with windows propped open to admit a soft sea breeze. Cool and blue, perfumed with the scent of crisp order, ink and parchment. A fire was unnatural. It was an invasion, an overstepping and a defiling of memory. While the rest of the house smelt of dust, the study possessed an uncanny energy. The room did not bear the correct construction for a fire—not spacious enough, neither enough ventilation.

Elizabeth was absorbed by the details, by the incongruities. Her eyes flickered to the shut window. Anger festered in her veins and she could not stand by, listening to that laughter. "How dare you!" she seethed, looking Beckett in the eyes.

He lifted a bemused eyebrow. "Guards," he muttered, his voice cool and undemanding as she strode towards the window.

"Get _out _of my way!"

"Gents, let her be," he continued, and his armed cronies backed down. He watched her go to the window, and with a jerk of her wrist, she flicked the latch. The panes opened broadly, letting in the cold and the rain. The rain which leaked onto her face, melding with the tears and the perspiration. "She won't escape. Will you, lovely?"

She let her hand slide down the slick pane, against the splintered edges of wood. The feel of the house was even different, rotten and reeking of the filth which had seeped through its pores since…since…

She spun around, her eyes shot with scarlet. "Shut up."

His tongue clucked audibly against the roof of his mouth. "That's not the way to get into my good graces."

She stepped forward, her jaw set. "You killed my father. It's _you_ who should be begging for _my_ favour, don't you think?"

He laughed, loud and mocking. Shivers pelted her spine like needles. It was the kind of laugh she had heard before: the laugh of a predator reveling in the succulent vulnerability of its prey.

"You're quite sure of yourself. Bold, feisty." He stood up from the chair, walking towards her. "It's a shame you're beautiful. Part of me actually regrets having to kill you."

Her eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't kill me."

"Wouldn't I?" He drew forth a finger to swipe across her jaw.

She exhaled, forcing composure. "No. You've nothing to gain from it."

His eyes gleamed. "So I act purely for personal gain. Well then…" He turned to survey all persons in the room. "…who would I have to kill, if not you?"

She smirked. "No one."

His jaw stiffened as he leered. "I'm afraid it doesn't work that way. Two for the price of one. That's _more_ than fair."

So it was about that still, about that which they had put behind them. The murders of the Admiral and the Lieutenant. Two for the price of one. Two murders made void by one person's sacrifice. One person's sacrifice. But…

"But…" she voiced aloud.

"You think I didn't know; wouldn't catch you? You wonder why I didn't mark you at once. Because I knew you would come crawling back once your father succumbed to the grief which left this place in shambles. Swann had no business as Governor—what was he doing? Whimpering at the window, bemoaning your 'death.' All he needed was a little…" He paused, as if looking for the proper word. "…encouragement to let _someone else _fill his post and dispel of his burdens forever."

A gasp escaped her throat. A tear, like a displaced diamond, glittered on her cheek. _My fault, my fault,_ her heart cried with every reverberation within her chest, and her breaths could not drown it out this time. Her stamina was faltering. "What do you want?"

He could sense her weakness—the predator had the advantage over the prey, watching it squirm and writhe before sinking in its teeth.

"But I've already told you." Casually, he opened a desk drawer, pulling out a pistol. He pointed it at her. "Shall I kill you?" He swiveled and turned towards the other two—Turner and Sparrow, silent bystanders throughout the exchange. "Shall I kill him, or him?" All three victims stood silent. "Who, who, who? Now this is an amusing game. Perhaps I'll just close my eyes and shoot randomly…No?"

Her eyes began to burn. The heat in the room? The heat in her chest? Then the cries of her heart stopped abruptly, and she blurted something before having time to consider: "I have something better."

Beckett smiled, taking his finger from the trigger. "I'm listening."

"No! Elizabeth, it's a trap—don't negotiate!"

Elizabeth met Will's eyes briefly, but did not see him. Did not hear him, really.

"Quiet, Turner," Beckett barked. "Now, go on."

She swallowed. She was about to act rash, but then she didn't care. Rash? No. It had been part of the plan anyway. It fit in perfectly. Her voice was low and level when she spoke. "Jack Sparrow has been a wanted man for decades. You can take him now—he'll surrender in full to you, no strings attached. You can take him now and do what you will with him." She lowered her lashes and expelled a breath. "In exchange, you let Will and I go, no strings attached." Someone across the room gasped; she did not know who it was.

"So we strike a bargain, is that it?" He fingered the trigger.

"Two for the price of one—you said so yourself. A man worth a hundred souls, paying for two. That's _more _than fair."

"A hundred souls," he repeated. "That's overmuch, isn't it?"

"Not when you take into account the hundred men you've lost in attempts at my capture," Jack Sparrow spoke.

Elizabeth's brow furrowed. Was he really going along with it? But why?

"I hate to admit this, but you're right." He lowered the pistol. "You've eluded the Company one too many times, Sparrow. It's high time you paid the price." He nodded to the guards. "Arrest him."

Elizabeth watched them take Sparrow, shackle his wrists, all without a fight. She watched, but did not comprehend. Was this it? Would they walk away; could they? Was it not a dream?

They were taking him away. She suddenly felt faint, as if she would drop to the ground.

"My thanks, Miss Swann. It's been a pleasure doing business with you."

His voice reawakened her attention. She parted her lips, but her mouth, parched, could not speak.

He came to the barred door, was about to open it, when he paused to turn around. He looked her square in the eye. "I nearly forgot. Here's something to commemorate our little visit."

Utter silence and then screams. Horror the colour of blood taking place of the short-lived relief. She had watched him take the pistol from his breeches, seen the glint of silver metal reflecting in his hard eyes…and she could do nothing. Before it began, it was over. A gunshot ringing through the air, but silent in her overriding screams.

"NO! No!" She crouched next to him, her hands sodden with the blood seeping from the wound in his heart. "Will! Will, look at me. Look at me!"

His eyes fluttered. "Elizabeth…"

She repeated his name, touching his face. "Will, no, you're all right! You're all right. Please, please…"

That laugh again. The predator had conquered his prey, licking his chops after the meal.

"Shut up. Cruel, insolent bastard." Jack turned towards Beckett, seething. Anguish overwhelmed his countenance, making him ten years older.

"Cruel is a matter of perspective," Beckett shot back.

Her screams rattled Jack's soul, and he knew at once that all those whom she had loved were gone.

"Will, Will, no! I won't leave you! I won't leave you!"

He could not bear it. How many must die? At least one more. Cruel is a matter of perspective?

"Is it now?" he countered, his voice a vicious snarl.

Beckett lifted his brow in the faintest hint of intrigue, his lips parting in the beginning of a retort—what did he have to lose? He witnessed the shuffle, the sword taken from the unsuspecting guard. He saw the gleaming metal bearing down upon him. Before it began, it was over.

A groan left him as the sword punctured his heart, slashing through to protrude from his back. His eyes remained open yet lifeless as he fell to the ground, blood softly pooling around his body.

"Elizabeth. Elizabeth!" Jack crept to her side.

She had not heard and saw nothing save for the angel that was torn away from her all too soon. She grasped onto his fingers, muttering his name in a chant to restore him to life, and yet his lashes fluttered, falling onto her palm as she pressed her hand against his cheek.

"Elizabeth!" Jack hissed.

She finally lifted bleary eyes, angered by the intrusion into these moments that seemed still unreal.

"There's a small bottle in my front pocket. Take it."

She blinked, not understanding, hearing his voice but not entirely seeing him. Hearing his voice, but not comprehending the words.

"Take it!"

Emitting a sob, she touched the pocket, her fingers finding the bottle, no bigger than her thumb and filled with a silvery liquid. The harshness of his tone startled her into automatic motion.

"Put it to his lips; make sure all of it goes down his throat."

"What?" she croaked.

"Do it. There isn't much time. It's an elixir of immortality—I obtained it from an acquaintance of mine upriver, an obi woman."

Her eyes widened. Without further questioning, she lifted the bottle to Will's mouth. The silver liquid coated his lips, dropped onto his tongue. She tilted his head, pretending that he was not dying before her eyes as she delivered the elixir.

"Every last drop!" Jack muttered hoarsely.

She held the bottle upside down for several seconds which felt like hours until it was empty. Then her hand fell and the bottle rolled away under the desk. She began to shake and she could not stop it. "Jack?"

"Shh," he whispered. All was silent. They were the only ones left—the others had retreated, God knows when and where.

He was not moving—he was dead. It didn't work, it was a placebo, it…

"Yes!" Jack murmured.

Elizabeth opened her eyes again. A whirl of translucent smoke climbed into the air from Will's parted lips. Crackling. Crackling, like the popping of a thousand bubbles, a rush of air—all of the air in the room bundled together and drawing from every crevice, filling his lungs and erupting over his body in silver rivulets that entwined about his limbs. A spider web of light formed across his chest, intricate and brilliant, burrowing into his body, seeping into the red wound and making it gleam white. Light burst from his heart, pumping, pumping. His heart was pumping with the light restoring his blood. Restoring his life. He was brilliant. The light and the air propelled through his body—audible, like bells ringing on a cool morning.

Then…the light diminished. It nigh disappeared entirely before a gasping breath sounded in his throat. His eyes shot open.

Her body tightened. The breath was leaving her, or just returning. In an instant, her arms were around Jack's neck. She sobbed into his shoulder with repeated murmurings of gratitude. In her ecstasy, she kissed him on the lips, her eyes shining with silver stars.

"Easy, love," Jack responded with a smirk. The years were falling off his face in spades.

"If there's anything I can do…" she mumbled, rapid and somewhat incoherent.

"Just get me out of these, eh? Then see to the whelp, for heaven's sake." He lifted his shackled wrists.

She nodded, and wiping the tears from her cheeks she rose for the desk, opening a drawer to find a key.

"Jack? What happened?" Will muttered, blinking repeatedly and body trembling as an aftermath of the elixir's potency. Alive. Weak and gradually regaining his strength, but alive.

Jack smiled. "You're all right, mate. Don't fret."

Elizabeth returned, fitting the key into the shackles' groove. Then he was free. They were all free.

"Elizabeth."

The world halted on its hinges when his voice brought her back. A voice that had been lost and forgotten and then restored by serendipitous circumstances, by fate.

* * *

Later, Jack Sparrow would remark that Will Turner always "had a touch of destiny about him." In fact, that obi woman Tia Dalma had predicted it. Predicted it when Hector Barbossa held the post of Captain of the Black Pearl, when the young Will of ten years old had yet to be rescued by a vessel sailing from England to Jamaica. She had predicted one Turner to have a touch of destiny, to become immortal. Well, Bootstrap Bill had died and not come back and that was the end of it, and so Jack concluded that it was all hogwash. Then, Will Turner came along. Bootstrap's long lost son. Fortuitous. That was it, then.

Later, when all was settled and the world was calm once more, Elizabeth would ask Jack in quiet why he did it. Why he never used the elixir on himself, when he so desired immortality.

"Well, love, the fact is, an elixir of immortality can only be used to forestall death. It's ineffective otherwise."

Later, when the child was born and months had passed, she startled at her appearance: a glance in the looking glass revealed renewed youth, even heightened beauty; her figure bore no effects from the pregnancy, or from any physical strains she had endured. A glance at Will foretold a change—yet she had not expected a change in herself. She thus drew Jack aside and questioned him.

"Why, love, I thought you'd figured it out. You're immortal, you foolish wench!"

The child, their first child. Immortality ran through Will's veins, thus ran through the veins of any being who shared his blood. As the silver light erupted throughout Will's body, so it filled the being within Elizabeth—swelled within Elizabeth. She became immortal—she, Will, their child William. Immortality from the elixir reaches its limits, then, and all other progeny remain mortal.

"A touch of destiny," Jack would repeat the cryptic phrase. "Tia Dalma said 'Turner'—no specifics. Apparently the prophecy extended to you and young William."

* * *

Later, all would come to light. But, just for now, Elizabeth fell into Will's arms to lie with him forever. She had not known what forever meant. The touch of lips, of skin upon skin, of solemn embraces, required forever to satisfy. Even then, forever is not enough to recover the lost and revel in the found. But it is just enough… a passionate kiss in the ocean, the warm sun upon the mast, the sand, and cool stones beneath the feet…it is just enough to live and remember these moments.

* * *

A/N: This chapter was the most challenging of anything I have written. Many tears and laughs (but mostly tears) have gone into this story. I really hope you all have enjoyed reading. I cannot thank you enough for sticking with me and reviewing. It means the world :) Let me know if you want a short epilogue. I n conclusion, though, this is the bittersweet end. Happy reading & writing! Thank you again.

-Bit Closer


	28. Epilogue

Progressing Against Propriety

A/N: Inspiration strikes one at the oddest moments. Here is the long-awaited epilogue:

* * *

The chilled crystal glass was left with the lingering, misty imprint of her breath as her lips brushed the rim. The last drop of water vanished upon her tongue. With a finger, she traced the design on the glass, some naval emblem, and then set it back down. The tablecloth, ill-used, seemed to wheeze with a puff of dust in contact with the glass.

Discomposure. The entire room was discomposed, fraught with the cold and covered with dust from a year of neglect.

And yet she had located the crystal glass—having pried open the cabinet—cleaned it, drank out of it, for no reason other than nostalgia and perhaps a fragile hope that her touch would bring life back into the room. Not so; her powers were not so potent. The past was dead, and so she had no reason to be here. Except that the estate need be handled. After her father's death, it had passed into the undeserving hands of the militia and the town went to ruin. Now, everyone was either dead or a deserter and the estate stood empty. She had not wanted to face it, not after they left. She was content to leave it be, a remaining fragment of her old life, of her father. But notice came that it must be seen to by the rightful heirs or be torn down, by their consent or not. And so with heavy hearts, with wounds still not fully healed, they received word, both of their names listed as heirs to the estate. Rightfully, he (her husband) would inherit all, her father having entailed the entire property (and his fortune, in the event of his death) to him. And so, a year after the events that so transformed their lives, they found that they were not destitute, but well-endowed; they were not poor, but wealthy.

They received this news in a lukewarm manner. The circumstances had lost the potential to be providential; it was too late. They had contented themselves within a beach cottage, modestly idyllic, and set to abide the rest of their lives there. Expecting a child, they struggled with preparing for this new life into their own while dealing with the shock and pain that had threatened to kill them, but did not. No—they were given the oddest gift of all: immortality. She loved it, for it had saved him. But she hated it, and he hated it likewise (never would he admit, but she knew). It meant an eternity of dealing with what had been, with what was now.

They would learn to move past it, but what then? _They _were immortal, but what about their children? Would they suffer a life of watching them grow and then die before their eyes? Would they bury sons and daughters grown old and weathered whilst they remained young? Could they forfeit their dreams of parenthood, abstain from intimacy with one another, just to spare them this further pain? And yet, in being spared this, more pain was incurred. For not being together after all that had transpired was the severest sort of pain. Death was preferable. In ruminating on this, often they were inclined to seek death, but this was impossible. Unless immortality could be reversed.

They did not want to think about it.

So a year had gone by (so quickly—perhaps if all time passed thus, eternity would not _seem _eternal) and here they stood to take care of things. The babe was left at home, under the care of a trusted acquaintance—in so far as they could trust anyone. Yet with _her _they felt quite safe. She was _Anamaria_, after all, who had not abandoned them when the Captain had.

She heard the door click and she stood, passing out of the parlour and into the foyer. Her silhouette contrasted starkly with the grey surroundings. It did not used to be grey, this house. But once she had abandoned it, those years ago, the house was fated to ruin. She did not lament; it was the course of destiny.

And so _her_ destiny met her in the foyer, a man with the same mystical exquisiteness emanating from his person, so discordant with the grey that enveloped him.

He was drenched in wetness, but it brightened his features. The gift of immortality was eternal beauty, enriched beauty, heightened sensuality. Every movement was lithe and full of vigour. What was strenuous before was simple now. _That _effect of their condition had its merits, at least.

"The rain persists, then?" she murmured.

He nodded, weaving a hand through his damp tresses. "No relent in sight." He approached and took her hand in his. Their eyes met and they engaged in a silent discourse, their thoughts the only semblance of life in this dead house.

He did not question her; need not. Only offered, "Shall we go?"

Silent, she took his arm, and like spirits, like ghosts of a long-forgotten world of custom and politesse, he opened the door (once so imposing, now frail). Allowing her to cross the threshold, he supported her with a hand at her back.

Stepping into the rain, the house evanesced as a wisp of smoke, turning ever greyer as they departed. It was left to its fate, as they were left to theirs.

He had taken care of the papers, she needn't ask—he had known her decision before she knew it herself. The mansion would be condemned. The fortune was theirs, but what to do with it? All plans for the future seemed out of reach, irrelevant.

Their situation was not hopeless—far from it. She must remind herself of that, despite the pricks of darkness that entered into her heart when thoughts of the past crept into her mind unbidden.

Her hand tightened against his arm as they walked. He glanced at her with a smile.

Her heart was won. And _this _was the reason why life was worth living, why immortality agreed with her at all. For if he had not swallowed the elixir, he would be dead. And then…?

The touch of his lips upon hers took her by surprise. Stars swirled in his eyes. A kiss from him could shift her entire world. His voice rumbled against her throat as he kissed her there. "Let us go to the sea, Elizabeth."

She placed her hand at his heart, feeling the beat, as she drew unconsciously closer to him. She knew what he wanted; she wanted it. But when was the right time for an escape? "Will…" she whispered. "What about William?"

They loved the child, undeniably. At least, they _wanted _to love him. She loved the idea of a child—but like the inheritance of her father's estate and fortune, the circumstances had arrived too late to be considered providential. Thus, their baby, their William, seemed an ill-timed blessing. Perhaps in the coming months she would love him truly, not out of obligation but of natural instinct. A father had his fears—questions about immortality burdened Will. He was not ready, did not ask for this condition, did not ask that his first-born be bestowed with the gift of eternal life. How would that affect his development? When would he cease…to age? Would they, he and Elizabeth, age visibly? The myths foretold eternal youth. How to reconcile this with their baby, born immortal? He could not fathom. He could scarcely deal with these issues, let alone deal with what he had become. What he and his wife had become. Life had turned brighter yet darker still, with uncertainties accumulating and the ability to love suddenly stifled. Could they properly love the child, without loving one another as they ought?

"We shall be gone but a fortnight. Forget not that he remains quite snugly under Anamaria's care." He kissed her again. "We need this."

"Yes…" She clenched the open collar of his shirt. "Yes." She needed him to kiss her again. Needed him…

When had their thoughts and feelings subsided enough for a single, unthinking, intimate moment? Thinking back (how could she not, in searching for happiness?)—Thinking back, she recalled the day of her husband's death, and rebirth. In the aftermath, when all was done and Jack had left them (they'd had no word of him since), they lay in one another's arms, too shaken to speak, to move, anything. And days turned to months and they must get their bearings, and then the pregnancy…

In short, intimacy was grown impossible. Even after William's birth—well, it was now four months since, and what with Anamaria turning up (bless her) and receiving the notice about her father's estate…well. And that was that.

Yet—he suggested a retreat upon the sea. The sea. The conduit of freedom, it was her vision for an idealized existence of pleasure, merciless in its crushing of propriety.

"Elizabeth."

She blinked out of her reverie and noticed his gaze, shocking silver as he met her own eyes with certain intent.

"Elizabeth," he murmured again, pulling her to him with a grasp of her hips.

Her figure, bending like a flower's tendril, seemed to twist and wind about him in a spectral dance. Rivulets of rain upon her skin cascaded through her veins in a torrent of feeling. Having lain dormant, its sudden familiarity within her was startling.

"Elizabeth."

She felt the feeling spread and it threatened to erupt through her should he say her name again.

Beneath a secluded bough, they were shielded from the rain, shielded from the world. Sand was beneath their feet—they had reached the seashore, unwittingly. She had not noticed, for once. Had not noticed for once, for she had been enraptured by memories and sensations that _he _created.

"How long has it been?" he queried, kissing her again, his lips nigh voracious as they sought hers.

She sighed, leaning into his form, not expecting…not expecting to fall, headlong, into impassioned oblivion, her breath catching in her throat, as he touched her, gracing her collarbone with a feathery touch, his arm winding around her back to press her ever still closer.

"Will," she hissed, deepening the kiss of her own volition. It was devastating, her heart fragmented like the frayed edges of a tapestry—suddenly the fragments beginning to knit together again as her heart became alive.

The rain began to pelt against her neck, the bough too weighted down to provide shelter. He knew very well how long it had been, knew very well as he tasted her lips and let the rain fall upon them, washing away the anger and anguish of the past. Knew very well, when she responded with tears burning in her eyes, her hands shaking as they slipped beneath the soaking garment to touch his skin, to feel his heart beating against her palm.

"Eliz—"he ventured against her own importunate lips, and when she uttered a blasphemy, he chuckled deep from within his chest. "_There's_ my Elizabeth."

Their eyes met, and the pretence—the pretence of caring too much about the petty details of their existence—evanesced in a moment.

She smiled at him, her eyes vivid, and murmured in a rasp, "I want to go to sea."

Lightning struck the ground by their feet, casting their countenances in supernatural radiance. They glanced at once another, mirth in their curving lips, and kissed once more, tempting fate. Jaded by life, jaded by death, they cared not, for nothing could touch them.

Taking her by the hand then, they stepped across the cobblestones, bound for the parapets. With a breath, and feeling closer to him as the rain propelled them together, she cried,

"We have only the sea to bind us."

He knew this—for he turned about, engaging in a pas when his footsteps merged with hers, lifting her by the waist and setting her upon the stone staircase. His movements spoke to a greater advantage than his words. _We met, we loved, we lived, we died_, he intimated, _while on the sea_.

A little girl found a shipwrecked boy with a medallion round his neck on the passage from England to the Caribbean; a subtle moment in a ship's below when he touched her hand and she entreated him not to stop; a stint upon _The Black Pearl_, living out from under the shadows of propriety; and dying figurative deaths on route to Tortuga.

"Shall we try again, love; try to live again?" he asked. They stood, side by side, on the edge, looking down into the black, churning waters. They had been here before, all before—she had fallen into those frozen waters under the weight of propriety, igniting the chain of events that had led them here; he had watched Jack plummet towards the depths in search of freedom. If _she _had done it, if _Jack _had done it, both in seeking freedom, then there was naught to stop him.

She looked him full in the eyes, longing in her gaze, and wrapt her arms about his neck. "Yes."

He claimed her lips, claimed her body and soul, and like perfectly matched partners in a pirouette, they danced off the parapet. Into the sea.

In the distance, lightning struck. The Swann Estate burst into flames, immediately dampened by the rainfall, and disintegrated into a mound of charcoal ash.

Into the sea. The reign of the past ended, a rebirth was begun.


End file.
